


The Long Winter of Her Discontent

by orphan_account



Series: the red queen (and her knight) [1]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if we could stop, pause to take stock of each precious moment before it passes? Might we then see the endless forks in the road that have shaped a life? And, seeing those choices, choose another path? Or is it all destined by fate? /What if Liz and Red had met earlier? Like when Sam got his first cancer diagnosis. Would this moment change everything for either of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Figure_of_Dismay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Figure_of_Dismay/gifts).



> Prompted by figure-of-dismay on tumblr: What if when Lizzy went home a few years ago when Sam was in treatment for cancer the first time, Sam's "old friend Ray" was also there at the same time. I'd be able to buy that she doesn't recognize him, even though she's a cop, between not looking like the fbi photo and the way you just don't assume that your dad's friend is a criminal, it could work as a chance meeting. the question is if it's a one time meeting or the beginning of more?
> 
> Time passes in moments... moments which, rushing past, define the path of a life, just as surely as they lead towards its end. How rarely do we stop to examine that path, to see the reasons why all things happen, to consider whether the path we take in life is our own making, or simply one into which we drift with eyes closed. But what if we could stop, pause to take stock of each precious moment before it passes? Might we then see the endless forks in the road that have shaped a life? And, seeing those choices, choose another path?

Nothing interesting ever happens in Omaha, Nebraska. Historians call it the "Gateway to the West;" he calls it a sleepy, middle of nowhere town. But that is exactly the reason why he and his friend chose this place so long ago: nothing happened here. Well, nothing catastrophic anyway. Tourist season comes and goes; football games are hard fought and occasionally a championship will end up here or there; but otherwise, the town is otherwise unimportant as far as he and the world he runs in, is concerned.

Initially, he didn't want anything to do with the post-rescue. He wanted nothing to do with her. At least for the time being. But the wide little blue eyes rimmed with tears, holding out a gauze-wrapped little arm and hand out to him as Sam held her, changed his mind. Their all to brief stint in the quiet, non-descript hospital bonded the two of them more than he hoped. She didn't know his name but she cried in the night if he wasn't there. She'd get up from her bed and look up at him as he lay on his stomach with burn molds on his back to keep the raw skin from getting infected. She'd find a way up. Her petite four year old self always found some way to climb onto the bed and curl into his side, mindful of him and his dilemma. When she was scared like this, knowing he couldn't move he'd talk to her. Reassure her. Tell her,  _Lizzie, no one can hurt you; you're safe_. She'd sniffle, her little hand not clutching the bunny he'd also rescued from the fire, would land on his arm and she'd stay like that until a "nurse" put her back her bed in the morning. He'd get a scornful look from the woman but he saw the understanding as well. The woman slightly older than himself wasn't unaffected by the four year old. She was just able to hide it better. He stayed until she was seemingly okay. Then, they disappeared into the night. He still needed treatment but she was okay enough to live out her life. Knowing she couldn't stay with him, he sought out one of his only friends. The two needed a safe, otherwise sleepy town to hide in. It was as much for his peace of mind as her safety. So, he got the ball rolling as his burns were treated and graphed by a highly crooked plastic surgeon in Miami Beach. He hid them away; made sure they wanted for nothing; protected them from afar.

He's only visited Nebraska a few times since Sam moved here years ago. The nondescript town in the middle of nowhere is a perfect place to hide in plain sight. As he drives and looks out the windows at the road in front and beside him. He didn't expect the dirty lumps of frozen snow to be here still. Nor did he expect the sun to be out but just border the freezing 32-degree mark. He's prepared for it though. He's prepared for mostly anything these days, including the weather.

He had been all over the world; the most exotic and least appealing locals under his bootstrap and yet, some of the places still aren't as nice and inviting as a spring day view from Heartland of America Park looking beyond to Downtown Omaha. As he parks his hired car in a stall overlooking the lake with chunks of ice still floating where the water usually bubbles and spouts from, he thinks back to the last spring he spent here. It must have been twenty some years ago: her sixth birthday. He still remembers the little girl with dark blue eyes and a little god-awful bowl-bob haircut he was sure was Sam's fault. Although she was a recluse—only one of the things they have in common—he always noticed, although careful around him, she seemed to trust him; almost drawn to him. Sam had told him how hard he tried to get her to trust him. It had taken the last two years and endless sessions to get her out of her reclusive self, or at least this far out. Yet, with him, there's only a brief hesitation before she does anything but the hesitant stance leaves a moment later. He wonders if her four-year-old self remembers him. He knows the mind is a fickle, undocumented thing. It's too complex to be studied and applied to a whole society. He wouldn't be surprised if she did somehow imprint on him the night he saved her life in the inferno. She went around and collected the flowers that blew away from their place on the tree that shade their bench. He remembered her giggle as she watched one land on his fedora. He felt along his hat and grasped the small blossom, crooking a finger at her to come closer. She evaded his grasp a few times as little kids with a mischievous streak do, getting a chuckle out of him and her father as he finally playfully grabbed her and she protested before he added the tiny cherry blossom to her own hair—behind her ears so it wouldn't fall out. He let her go and he smiled a genuine grin as she dipped her chin and looked to her feet covered in shiny new mary janes. He leans back against the bench and watches as she hands her father a bloom and he thinks every time he sees Sam and Lizzie smile, the night was worth it. She surprised him that day as she carefully walked towards him again and placed a tiny blossom in his suit jacket pocket before shying away and escaping to play to her heart's content. He looked down at the little bud that peeks out from his pocket. Shaking his head and clearing his mind of the memory, he looked to the cherry blossom tree. It was still frozen in time thanks to the chilly frost Omaha was under in their weather forecast for the day. He thinks the cherry blossoms should be coming in soon though. He's a little too far away to see if the buds are ready to bloom or if they're even on the branches. As long as there's a warming trend with sun, he thinks, they'll be in bloom. With one last look at the cherry blossom tree, he starts the car. Visiting hours should be back on again in the little hospital sandwiched in the middle of the downtown district.

When he pulled into the parking garage, he made sure there was an escape on both sides of the car. He wouldn't call himself paranoid; he'd call himself well prepared for any situation. Seeing an old friend in the hospital was no different. He always takes the stairs. Its been engrained in him since that lonely night when he defected of sorts. It's much too complicated to rehash so he often puts that memory into the back of his mind. He's never been claustrophobic but as of late, elevators were a no-go. When he got to correct floor in Saint Adrian's Hospital in Omaha, Nebraska, he used the alias of Mr. Gibbons as he speaks to the nurse sitting behind the desk. Mr. Gibbons was well known in New York City, especially at the private clubs and literal hole in the wall places behind everyday shops. Mr. Gibbons is anonymous despite the notoriety the name brought when uttered. Perhaps he wanted the anonymity. Needed it. He is, after all, a fugitive and a most wanted one at that. Last time he checked, he was number four; the seat vacated by an enemy of the state he had killed as a favor to his once government. The irony never escapes him.

He wasn't sure why he chose that particular name or why they really need his name but then again, he was used to remote hospitals where they often don't ask questions. He watches the nurse flip to Sam Milhoan's name and write down the time and his name. He chuckles in his mind: Americans and their paperwork. He swears this country is going to be buried alive in paperwork one day. He tilts his head a fraction of a degree and tries to read the form. He could barely read the chicken scratch of the nurse or assistant but he assumed it was his pseudonym. He's been adrift for years on his own agenda and making a name for himself in the belly of the deep, dark underworld of criminal mischief. He's done well in that regard. The nurse hands him a badge and she gives him a placating smile. He also notices that she shifts the clipboard with what she just wrote closer to her form so he can't sneak a peek as to whatever else was written on the form. He briefly wonders if she's the type of nurse to get to know all the patients on the floor or if they all eventually turn into one giant, nameless face. He's not sure which one he hopes her to be as she tells him she can take him to Mister Milhoan's room now. He holds the visitor's badge in his hand. He plans on taking off his coat when he's in the room and promises the young woman guiding him down the maze of doors and beds that he'll clip it on after he sees his friend. She quietly peeks through the door and notices the patient is sleeping. He promises to be quiet. It's a surprise of sorts that he's there, he tells her. She smiles in that way it's supposed to relieve some of the tension but she's also wary. Perhaps, he thinks, because the man in question, the patient, shouldn't have too many surprises. But she leaves with the final note that she'll be just down the hall. He watches her walk away. Not in a suggestive way. More like he is always aware of where people are in relation to his person. He didn't survive this long without watching and remembering everyone he encounters. He notices the gait, which suggests she knows she is being watched and he can tell she wants to turn and look back but courtesy prevents her from doing so. At least America still engrains that, he chuckles to himself as he holds open the door.

He sheds his jacket and clips the badge to his vest pocket, avoiding the silk pieces and instead using the cotton. He folds his coat over his arm and looks around the shadowed room and is reminded how much he detests hospitals. He spots the coat rack and briefly wonders how often it's washed or cleaned and looks through the various cabinets quiet as a church mouse as he hunts for a latex glove to put over the bulb on the rack. A few minutes of searching and deducing the hospitals in Omaha are backwards, and he sets up his invention hoping his jacket is free from the contaminants that linger like death here in the corridor. Once that was set, he took another turn about the room and digs through Sam's bag. And like usual, he is never without a book. A mediocre read but a read nonetheless as he waits for his friend to wake, as he moves to the corner window and settles himself in for hours of self-entertainment.

* * *

He sits in the corner, one polished shoe resting on the linoleum floor that squeaks ever so slightly as he shifts back in his seat. The brief sound wakes the bed's occupant and he smiles, showing off the slightest hint of teeth as his lips curl and then rest in a thin, even line. His cheek twitches as he brings his chin down to level with the man in the hospital bed.

"Hello, Sam," he nods.

"Red," Sam sputters.

Raymond Reddington took an even breath and plays with the hat dangling on the edge of his knee that rested across his planted foot.

"You look like hell, Sam," he stated.

He pauses and assesses the bed-bound man.

"Have you told her yet?"

The beep of the machine as Sam's levels rose then evened once was the only answer he'd get.

"You need to call her," Red told him.

He plants his other foot on the ground and tosses his fedora to the edge of the bed. His knees crack and pop as he stands, joints relieving the pressure from sitting so long in one position. He wasn't that old but sometimes the stationary silence made him think otherwise.

Sam's phone was on the nightstand-desk apparatus just to the side of his bed. It was old. He knew that only because his accountant always kept up with the latest phones and she certainly didn't have this brick-like device. Every time his finger hit a key on the minuscule pad with the even smaller screen he had to squint at to read, it made a little clicking, beeping noise.

"That doesn't bother you," he said as he lifted his fingers and made them dance around the keypad in a mild frustration. "The little clicking noises."

Sam coughs and shrugs. He had never really noticed it before.

Raymond Reddington silently chuckles at the nickname in Sam's phone for his daughter. Pressing down on the buttons, he dials the number and holds it up to Sam.

He hears the phone ringing through Sam's end. It wasn't loud enough to really hear but in the otherwise stillness of the room, it was the only thing he could listen to.

"Daddy," Elizabeth greeted.

Even Raymond Reddington could hear the confusion in her voice as she receives the unexpected phone call. They talked on Monday nights, not Friday afternoons. He would know that she'd be going to one of her classes until late and would try and get off the training grounds for a few hours before being sucked into the depraved criminal mind for the next five hours.

"Butterball," Sam greets her and attempts his usual falsetto. Unfortunately, it fell short and Elizabeth immediately detects something was wrong.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Sam was winding up to a lead up. He was. She just beat him to the punch.

"Don't sugarcoat it, please," she told him through the uneasy silence. The  _please_  struck him. He never could resist the two syllable word coming from her mouth, especially when she added that extra emphasize on the 'e' when she was a little girl.

Sam picks at the blanket resting on his lap. A thread unravels and he pokes at it until it loops around his fingers.

"You know how you and Aunt June were bugging me about this cough," he began. He could picture her nodding her head as he continues. "Well, she took me to the doc the day before last and some doc took some blood and they took a million pictures of my insides. I feel like I have some kind'a superpower or something now with all those x-rays…"

"Dad," Liz cut in.

"Anywho," Sam said as an acknowledgement he'd get back on track. "They say its some kind'a cancer. No big deal."

"You're calling me on Friday; it's kind of a big deal if you're calling me," Liz tried.

"No," Sam shrugs. Because he wasn't the one that called her today… It was Raymond Reddington who dialed the phone number. It was Raymond Reddington who hit send and held the phone out as if Sam wouldn't tell, he would. Even though the last part wasn't true. He didn't want to reveal himself just yet. "It's only stage one or maybe two."

He could feel her emotions crackling over the phone as the static burst made its way through at the silence. He hates DC and the surrounding areas. Her cell phone never works properly because of all those politicians thinking they're not as expendable as his Lizzie. The silence went a beat too long and it was Sam who had to pick up the lag.

"Lizzie," he whispers. His voice sounds hoarse and harsh and he clears his throat as he shifts the mouthpiece of the cell phone up so she couldn't hear it right in her ear.

"I feel like I should be doing something."

Over on the east coast, Elizabeth put her head in her hands, rubbing at her forehead as emotion threatens to overwhelm her. Her fist digs for purchase and she bites her lip as her eyes well with tears. She wonders when he was going to tell her this…At their next Monday night conversation in three days?

"Just," Sam pauses. He draws in a breath slowly and he feels the tickle threatening to overwhelm him. But he needs to keep it in and show her he was fine; that he didn't really think it was a big deal. "Focus on your schooling. You can't get leave because of this. It'll put you behind; I'm fine."

"Dad," she tries.

A scuff on the floor made Sam look up from his continued quest to unravel the single strand of thread. A simple nod from the man in the room and Sam sighed with half a protest at both parties, on the phone and present.

"If you get leave," Sam relented, "Then there will be a plane ticket and my car will be at the airport."

He heard Liz trying to protest but before she could get out a word, he chided her.

"I'm at the hospital, so, don't worry about me driving or lifting a finger. Your aunt and uncle will do all the heavy lifting."

"Okay," she promises. Her okay promises she'd do as she was told and that he'd have some consequences coming for holding this back from her.

"Love you, Butterball," he whispers.

"I love you, Daddy," she whispers back.

He hits end and coughs. The tickle in his throat comes back with a vengeance and he holds the back of his hand to his mouth as he hacks. His lungs burn and his throat feels like the time he noticed a trail of ants viewed his hand as a bridge rather than a blockade. It goes on a beat too long and he feels weak from the jag.

A hand is at his back as he curls into himself, keeping him steady. When he draws a ragged breath in and checks the back of his hand for blood or something, a cup of water appears in his vision. He nods his thanks as he greedily took the lukewarm water and tilts the paper cup back to his lips.

"She's coming," Sam said in a sigh. A lone cough rattles in his throat.

Raymond Reddington's lips twinge in a half sort of smile and frown. He's prepared for this moment, perhaps even relished the careful and meticulous planning. But plans sometimes went awry. Although it wasn't ideal, he knew he was going to stay at least until she arrives to Sam's bedside.

"I'll make the arrangements," Raymond Reddington said finally. His familiar fedora was placed on his head and Sam knew that signaled the end of the visit, for now.

"Red," Sam called out as the man began to walk out of the room. Only when he was half turned did Sam finish. "Thank you."

The cant of Raymond Reddington's chin was the only response Sam got before the man disappeared.

* * *

Compartmentalizing is what she does best. She learns that early on it's a valuable skill to have. It didn't start out as compartmentalizing but it quickly became her routine as she learned to deal with her past, her fears, and what she decided her future was going to be. The fire was the first thing she learned to control with help from her father, Sam. He adopted her at the age of four. At four, she was reserved; too quiet; and liked to be alone but also have a shadow or be the shadow. There was no big welcome to the family celebration. Just Aunt June, her husband, Sam's friend, and her. Sometimes, she would shadow Sam and watch him intently. At least, that's what he always told her since her memories before the age of six or seven are hazy and filled with stories rather than true memories. He always told her she didn't imprint like the books said. It was hard to gain her trust, even at the young age of four. She seemed older and wiser; he could tell by her eyes. The dark blue eyes followed him everywhere, his every move; his every word; and his every action and reaction. She studied from a quiet distance. He always told her she learned to trust him the first night she had a nightmare of the fire. She doesn't remember the first time but she remembers all the times after when she was old enough to remember. She's stored enough of those memories away that she's a veteran when it comes to compartmentalizing.

She doesn't remember the fire except in flashes: the heat of the flames, the man with the bunny who saved her. It's been that way as long as she can remember and she always thinks of Sam. Her terrified screams always woke him and he'd slowly approach. He'd crouch next to the bed, hair wild and mussed from sleep, a quiet coughing jag after his sprint down the hall, and he'd stay in that position until she came to him. She'd bury her face into his neck, with tears wetting the shoulder and collar of his t-shirt. He'd hum. He'd hum for what felt like hours. The rumbling vibrations in his chest would catch her as she slipped down from her hold on his neck to rest her head above his heart. The steady thump, the coursing vibrations, and the raspy draw of breath in as he hummed lulled her racing mind. The flashes of fire would scatter the longer she concentrated on the whispered noise. He'd lay her down on the pillow; wipe the cold sweat from her brow; and brush a kiss against her temple. She always gave a little hum as his scruff brushed her soft skin, the warm puff of air as he whispered everything was going to be okay, his calloused fingers brushing back her wispy hair, and his sad little smile as she fought to keep her eyes open was always the last thing she remembered of those nights.

Compartmentalizing came in handy in the case exercises training in the training. She knows she won't be able to save everyone. The books and manuals make it sound so easy; she wonders about the turnover rate in the field she wants to go into: profiling. She knows from these case exercises, she can't go into the BAU… it's too dark and too daunting of a task. She wants inside the minds of criminals but not the worst of the worst. She can desensitize and compartmentalize a lot but not that far. She does, after all, want to have some sort of life even though she knows the job will take up more than enough of her time. She still sees the victim, though. And she thinks right now that's still a good thing. She still has a little empathy but not enough to be manipulated. She hopes at least at the end of training, the little flicker of light she feels when a case exercise ends well with an agent saving the next victim is still there. She hopes the boys club won't render her emotions obsolete. She hopes she can still feel something.

Visibly shaking out of her reverie, she notices her bags are packed and waiting for her at the end of her bed. It's sort of an out of body experience, remembering packing yet not being able to at the same time. She can still focus on tasks but since Aunt June called her with the travel information and was relived to hear that Sam confessed to her that he wasn't well, it's been a hell of a ride. Her roommate hands her the leave papers with a small smile. She had been in class when they came and her roommate had taken possession of the envelope and kept it until Liz had finished packing. It would have been a shame to have to skulk back to the commander and ask for a copy after he was already wary of giving her leave because she was entering the final half of training for the first phase of training. Liz nods her thanks and opens her mouth in an attempt to form the words but nothing comes out. Her roommate understands. Or at least, Liz thought she did since she nods back. They weren't friends but they were friendly enough. Living with someone for thirteen weeks, you learn to deal with oddities and the competitive atmosphere to be at the top of the class. The standard 'I hope your father gets better' was said and Liz mumbles a 'thank you' before shutting the door. Stealing herself for the trip, Liz double-checks the papers and the plane ticket confirmation page before hugging the pages close.

* * *

There was something about Omaha, Nebraska that made Elizabeth yearn to go back to the training facility in Quantico or even Baltimore where she had lived before, and yet stay here all at the same time. Its not that she hates it here but she hates what she could have been if she stayed: a nobody. The resentment for the life of crime that will never be made public could have changed her whole future and is still here in the recess of her mind. She was good... is still good. Sometimes she even misses the thrill. She's never quite gotten a thrill like she had back when Sam taught her the essentials: SING if you're ever in trouble; sleight of hand; pick pocketing and brush passes; and lock picking with just a touch of old school safe cracking. Whenever she'd ask where he learned this, he'd evade the subject and tell her that it was a different chapter in his life before her. Despite the resources available to her now, to check her father's name against the databases, she refrains. After all, he's her father and in the twenty odd years he's been there for her, he's never once had to leave the city limits or put her in any danger. As she makes her way down the steps of the prop plane and onto the tarmac to await her a la cart bag, she feels the hum in the air. She closes her eyes and breathes in and out, washing off the smog of Arlington and the recycled air of the plane.

Here in Omaha she isn't a woman in a male dominated world, attempting to pass each of the training certifications of the Federal Bureau of Investigation to be an agent. Instead, she is Sam Milhoan's daughter and brilliant salutatorian who finally escaped the small town life. She's resented by her classmates that have yet to escape the town and praised by her small family who thinks she should come back more often. Sam understands; he's always pushed her to get out and make a life for herself. He pushed her to get her Bachelor's away where she was able to get into a good school. He listened to her as she weighed the options of Master's versus Doctorate in her specialty. He'd visit for Dad's day and they switched every other holiday. He wanted out of Omaha just as much as she did, she thought back then. It's Aunt June who thinks the smog layer in the Virginia/Maryland area is going to give her breathing problems and she hadn't found a remedy for that quite yet.

The sky was beginning to lose light as she makes her way west and the sun had long settled past the horizon when her plane landed and she had gotten her bag from the carousel. She makes her way through the streets of Omaha with her father's car that smells of the faint traces of cigars and fast food. The latter of which makes her stomach rumble in protest. She hasn't eaten since this afternoon, after class when she barely caught the metro to head to Reagan. She had stopped by Dunkin Donuts to grab a coffee and donut holes after she passed through the hoards of families who lingered too long and crowded the security gates. The blood sugar spike helped after the three-hour class on cybercrime but she was once again coming down from the rush and needed sustenance. She knows if she stops for food, Aunt June will have words for her about how the chemicals and whatever preservatives keep the food tasting delicious is probably killing her father and will kill her too. She thinks it's the two-pack-a-day habit mixed with the alcohol that would do him in before his fast food addiction. Sam was always a good father to her, he loved her as she did him, but she didn't have to approve of everything he does. And his bad habits have now caught up to him. Perhaps that's why she's tried to right her life by becoming a better person. Perhaps that's why she tries to eat better and not forge bad habits. Figuring Aunt June would be at her own abode rather than Sam's found Elizabeth pulling the car into the first fast food restaurant she sees after taking the right exit to go home. After all, visiting hours at the hospital are over now and even as his daughter, Elizabeth Milhoan wouldn't be able to sit in a plastic chair and wait for her father to wake up. No. She'd demand answers and ask why the hell he kept this from her for so long.


	2. Chapter 2

Aunt June wakes her with the smell of coffee and a homemade breakfast. She's surprised at the coffee and looks at the bland egg whites and whole wheat toast when she makes her way down the hall and into the kitchen. As she reaches for the salt and pepper, Aunt June slaps her wrist and Liz is left with little flavor. She washes down the meal with her coffee and cringes as it tastes like coffee-flavored water rather than the full roasted bean flavor she expects when Sam makes it. She thinks even that instant crap is better than this. But she's thankful for the gesture that puts her a little at ease in the early morning. Aunt June doesn't have any answers for her and she grows frustrated at the fact she's chided for talking with food in her mouth even though its mostly swallowed. She knows Sam's not going to give her any real answers and expects Aunt June to at least know something she can work with but she's even less help than Sam was on the phone last night. She thanks her aunt for the food and the coffee and tells her she'll be at the hospital all day. Aunt June tells her she'll be waiting for a phone call tomorrow.

All these years away from here and she still can navigate the streets like the back of her hand. Though, a few of the streets are closed for construction the shortcuts to avoid all the early morning rush to work traffic makes the drive to the hospital a quick and easy trip. She looks at the clock radio on Sam's dash and notes that visiting hours started a mere fifteen minutes ago. Psyching herself up for the task at hand, she looks over at the passenger seat at her messenger bag full of books and her blanket she remembered to grab at the last minute. The latter was sort of a hopeful gesture. She knew Sam would see it for what it was, or at least she hopes he will.

A man was with him when she taps on the doorframe. The door to his room had been open and she heard the low voices halt as she leans against the frame of the door. The man sat with his back to the door but she sensed that he knew she was there. She could see it in his posture; the way his head sort of tilts as he looks at her through the reflection in the window just to the side of him. Others might not have noticed the subtle glance but she was trained to look for the person scoping out all the exits. And for him, she was currently blocking the only one. He has to come by her in order to leave. She wonders why would he continue to hide his face from her view. She notices, in a brief inspection of what she could see of his outfit, he wasn't dressed for a day in the hospital. Instead, he looks like he was in the middle of a business meeting with a client. Despite the stuffy looking suit, he lounges comfortably in the half-rocker he had obviously pulled close to the bed from the corner. The only reason she knew the chair had been in the corner was the little footstool lay abandoned in said corner as she took stock of her surroundings. He was comfortable until he registered her presence. She notices a jacket and a fedora are hanging on the little coat rack just inside the hospital room door. She puts a large smile on her face and tightens her arms on the blanket she carries in her arms.

"Sorry," she greets the man and her father. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Butterball," Sam welcomes her. There was a smattering of coughs and the seated man lifts a cup with a straw to Sam before letting her father suck the water greedily down.

"I'll excuse myself," the man says quietly but it carried in the otherwise empty hospital room.

She watches as he moves with a bowed head to where she stands in the doorway. He stops to grab his coat and fedora on the peg before he briefly looks up and she sees a flash of his face. His face is both younger and older than she expected for the glimpse she saw in the reflection of the window.

He brushes past her but they still touch. Her hands holding the blanket brush against his suit vest and he whispers a polite 'excuse me' as he still studies the tile.  
She tucks her arms under the blanket as she turns in the doorway and watches him go. Watches him leave out the east door. Standing there for a moment, she plays with the visitor's badge she just swiped from him underneath the blanket material.

She turns back to her father's room and walks inside the room.

"Dad," she dips her chin and sits in the vacated seat.

Her bag she had perched on her shoulder full of her textbooks is dropped in favor of it slumping against the chair leg.

"Hey, Lizzie," Sam whispers as he takes her in.

She frowns and takes in his appearance. He looks like her dad, sounds like her dad, but it feels so wrong. He looks a little worn. His eyes are dark and sunken almost. His skin is tight and despite being hooked up to a saline drip, he looks dehydrated. He coughs and the corner of her lips retracts in a half twitch at the sound. It's a wet noise and the hack suggests it isn't good. He sounds worse than he had years ago when the cough became a persistent thing in his life.

"You look like hell," she notes.

"Is that any way to greet your old man?" He sighs. It's the second time someone has told him he looks like hell. He briefly looks to the door and wonders if Red is lingering in the halls. But he knows his old friend would give them the privacy they need to begin some sort of accord after bringing her in late.

"Sorry," she laughs.

She drops the blanket and swiped badge behind her in the chair as she leans up and kisses her father's forehead in greeting. She sits back down with the blanket in her lap. She runs her fingers along the edges of the badge as she watches Sam watch her. She had no idea where to begin. So she looks up at him and hopes he'd start the conversation. It was only a few minutes before he did.

"I know you're pissed," Sam begins.

She moves to open her mouth to counter but she closes it. Because it is true. And her father also holds up his hand which is a signal for her to pause.

"It was just a cough," he tells her. "Aunt June thought it might have been a cold so she made me eat and drink all her medicinal crap."

Liz laughs as she remembers Aunt June really does love her licorice root. She now has a high aversion to anything with the word licorice.

"When I still hadn't kicked it, she all but dragged me here. I had tests… So many tests. It was a week later when I was called to one of them oncol... cancer doctors."

"Why…" Liz trails off. She furrows her brow in frustration. He knew about this far longer than he was letting on.

"Didn't I tell you?" Sam finishes.

Liz nods.

Sam coughs a little. The damn tickle is back and she looks worried.

"Because fathers are supposed to take care of their daughters, not the other way around," Sam told her. "At least, not until I'm an old man and have a grandkid to play with while Mom goes and finds bad guys."

She shakes her head. She dips her head and fights the smile threatening to appear on her lips. At least he's still thinking about the future. She thinks she's heard stories where if the patient has a positive outlook on life, it helps their chances. But she's also seen where the cranky cancer patients live and the young ones die. It seems stupid. This roulette game cancer plays in life; who it takes and who it keeps alive. She hates roulette. She hates cancer.

"What's next?" She asks as she looks back up at him as she finishes her musings.

Before Sam can say anything, a nurse interrupts.

"Oh," she calls out. Her hands are full with a tray and Liz averts her eyes from the tray's contents to the nurse's face.

Liz stands automatically and bites her lip.

"Do you have a visitor's badge?" the nurse asks.

Liz sets the blanket on the chair and looks to Sam as she holds up the badge she's been fidgeting with under the blanket.

The nurse frowns and steps closer. She deposits the tray she carries on the bed tray that Liz thinks is used for food. She comes closer and reads Sam's name on the badge and nods.

"We'll have to get some testing done," the nurse tells her as she looks from Liz to Sam.

"Is his doctor on duty?" Liz asks.

She knows she won't get the full report from Sam so she needs to see his doctor. For peace of mind… or something like that. She gathers her messenger bag and hooks it on her shoulder again. The weight seems to be the only familiar thing she can really hold onto right now.

The nurse looks to the clock and notes the time.

"Fifteen minutes and he will be," she points out helpfully.

Liz nods a thanks.

"I'll see you soon," Liz tells her father.

"Lizzie," he notes and she pauses. "Be careful."

She tilts her head in a slight confusion and he looks to the badge before looking back up at her again. She nods anyway.

* * *

Outside the hospital, the air smells different…cleaner. There's no astringent or linger of death. It's chilly but also warm. She stands just outside the shadows the building naturally creates and feels the sun beating its warm rays against her face. It's also relatively early and from the weather forecast, it's supposed to get a bit warmer as she settles in for the week. She has two weeks leave but she's already going to be behind and she knows Sam thinks her education is more important than his health. That much is evident by the being late to the party. And she wonders what changed his mind this time. After all, he looks a little unhappy she is there yet grateful for her presence at the same time. She knows he'll make her leave, which is why she needs to talk to the mysterious man she had seen in his room. Somehow she knows he's still here. Which is why she follows the path he took out of the hospital.

He studies her from across the healing garden with his eyes protected by his amber rose tinted sunglasses and fedora pulled low to his brow. There is nothing particularly striking about how she dresses yet he's instantly drawn to her as she steps out of the shadows. He notices the dark pants, and plain white t-shirt hidden under a black peacoat. There was only one piece of color on her: her scarf. As he watches her survey the grounds, he notices her eyes were still that dark blue he remembers. They easily pierced his form as he tried to move as quickly as possible out of Sam's room. She is one thing that terrifies him. The power she wields over him and doesn't even know it. Perhaps she isn't particularly striking to others but she has already drawn him in with a simple brush pass. The only statement she makes is with her god-awful shoes he can only guess is the latest fashion here in the popular culture obsessed place he once called home. Her features draw him in but he's quite obsessed with her mind. He's followed her schooling. Knows how brilliant she is. She's set to be tapped by a number of agencies when she graduates from the first round of training in Quantico. He wonders if she'll attend the second phase right out of the first or if her skills are too valued and they put a hold on her file. She's a value according to her superiors, or her future ones. The one thing in life anyone really wants.

He's had the same page open in his book for who knows how long and knows he's been caught when her stare meets his own. Instead of feigning obliviousness, he tips his head and her chin burrows into the royal purple pashmina scarf wrapped around her neck as she walks the short distance to where he's made camp. She sides up to the bench he's perched on despite the chilly weather.

"Do you always wear a hat?" She greets him as he sits under the cover of the large tree in the relative quiet of the healing gardens on the outskirts of the hospital. She noticed how he quickly put it on in the room and it's still on his head as he sits outside. He has a full head of hair so it wasn't for warmth on the chilly day. She wonders if its fashion or something else that draws him to the fine hat.

"Do you always sit with strangers?" He asks as she sits next to him without asking. Although, she distances herself… an arms length away he measures in his head. Its close enough to be friendly but far enough she can escape if she needs to run. Sam's obviously taught her well. And Sam's obviously given her some sort of warning, which she heeds.

She laughs. Its light and airy in the bright winter-turned-spring day.

"Elizabeth, Liz," she greets him.

"Raymond," he took her proffered hand and shook it once before letting her hand go.

"We're hardly strangers now," she says as she drops the bag from her shoulder and onto the gravel below.

He laughs. It's a brief chuckle but it escapes him anyway. He knows she doesn't believe her words. If she did, she'd be sitting much closer to him. He tilts his head and the wide brimmed fedora shields his eyes but she notices a half smile on his lips. He wants to remark that whatever is in the bag is going to get soaked through but then he remembers the gravel was dry, unlike the surrounding muddy grass. The hospital could keep the remaining ice and dirty snow from the gravel paths, not so much the grass surrounding them.

"How is your father?" He asks.

"I thought you just saw him," she frowns slightly.

"I had stepped into the room moments before you arrived," he counters.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. She casts her head down and looks at the gravel between her shoes.

"You're very apologetic," he notes.

She cants her head in his direction and furrows her brows.

"The first thing I ever heard out of your mouth was sorry and now you apologize again," he notes. "I don't think I've ever received that many apologies in that short of time in all my life."

Sorry is on her tongue and she bites down, willing herself to swallow it.

She nods and she finds that she should probably go see Sam's doctor or something productive. Or at least where he will be when he gets on duty. She thinks the time spent lingering and waiting to spot him has at least shaved seven minutes off her fifteen-minute wait. She leans over and settles her bag on her shoulder and gets up to leave when he stops her.

"Wait," he says quickly. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" She asks.

"What I just said," his hand waves in a half circle as if he was trying to bring back the last of their conversation by sheer willpower.

"Its fine," she shrugs. "I'm used to it."

She watches him frown as if he's offended on her behalf and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep the smile from appearing. She is used to it though. Used to being dismissed by everyone around her. At the training facility its the fact she wants to go into behavior analysis and psychology but not the BAU; she's also one of three females to actually make it this far in her class group; and Sam's been dismissing her with this whole cancer thing. She's used to being left out or brought into the circle late. She just wonders why he looks like he could be offended on her behalf.

She holds out his visitor's badge as a silent truce.

"Here," she tells him. "You may want this back if you're going to visit him."

He tips his hat and she gives him a smirk.

"Sam never told me he had a thief on his hands," Red says with a chuckle.

"You've never been brush passed before?" She asks as she holds the visitor's badge between her fingers as he makes no attempt to take it back.

"Quite the contrary," he tells her.

There's this pinch she gets in the middle of her brow. As if she can gain insight into him by the simple confession. Sam had just finished warning him she was good. He just didn't realize he'd ever have a chance to see it first hand.

"Though," he says as he stands and faces her. "No one has really ever been quite that proficient. It took me until I stepped out here to realize it."

It's true. Because if he's doing the brush pass its either flawlessly executed or he's doing the execution. Executions aren't really his forte but there's a need for them. Especially where it concerns him and his business. And no one has really ever lived to tell a tale of successfully brush passing Raymond Reddington. No one has ever dared to get close to the man the criminal underworld needs and fears at the same time.

The little half quirk of her lips sparks something inside him. He doesn't know what. But he thinks he likes it. It's been ages since he's felt anything other than hate, fear, and lament.

The tips of his shoes are close to touching hers and he is oddly mesmerized by the swirling color pattern her shoes take on. They're god awful and he wouldn't be caught dead wearing a pair like that if they made them for men but she seems perfectly content wearing the monstrosities. He's broken out of his musings when there's a rustling of his jacket and she clips the badge to his suit vest she had stolen it off in the first place. He wonders why not his coat or suit jacket. Why did she know he preferred it there?

She takes a moment and traces her father's name on the badge with her eyes before she stands up straight and looks over his shoulder. He's tempted to look that way but he can sense no presence but her own out here in the early morning escape. She gives him a nod and begins to move around his steady frame.

"Where are you going?" He asks suddenly.

"Around," she shrugs.

"Sam," he trails off.

"You haven't been around hospitals much, have you?" She frowns. Not that she has either. But she's been to the ICU a few times too many in addition to this time around.

His silence is enough to make her think she's at least mostly correct in her assumption.

"One visitor in the ICU," she tells him. "Why do you think I stole your badge?"

She gives him a half smile and she's off. It takes him a moment to make sure he's collected his book and catches up to her.

"Where will you be?" He asks.

"Sam's never going to really tell me how he is," she notes.

He connects the dots. She's going to see the doctor.

"Mind if I come with?" He trails off and flutters his hand in front of him.

She scrutinizes him. She doesn't know what his relationship with her father is and is more than curious. He was obviously brought in before she was, and that sends a stab of regret through her. This mysterious man had more of an insight into her father, but he seems genuinely concerned. She wants to know more. Needs to. Sam told her to be careful but she doesn't know why. She feels a strange draw to this man. She can't put her finger on why or how but it's there in the recess of her mind.

"Fine," she tells him with a curt nod.

He gives her a brief, small smile and her breathing shutters for a half second as he places a hand at the small of her back to quietly guide her in through the door they've now arrived at.

He cants his chin in apology. He must have heard her breathy intake. She quirks a side of her lips in acceptance of his silent apology. Its funny, he doesn't seem to take his hand off her back though.

* * *

Sam's doctor used too much medical jargon, she thinks. She always internally laughed at some people's need to give them an air of superiority. Of course he explained it layman's terms to her and Sam's friend, Raymond, but only after he gave his medical jargon spiel. She had hoped his friend was listening more closely than she is because she had stopped at the stage two cancer diagnosis part. A hand touches her shoulder blade reverently. Almost as if he was approaching a spooked doe and she looks to him rather than the floor she's found so appealing. She can feel the doctor's stare. She wonders if this fog is anything like when the FBI has to tell a grieving mother and father bad news. Though she knows Sam can make it out of stage two, it still feels like a part of her world is slipping through the cracks. She wordlessly opens and closes her mouth as she stares at Sam's friend's concerned face. He attempts a smile but it's futile.

"Liz?" he asks.

Her name comes in like a rush and she nods.

"Uh, yeah," she nods. As if she's been keeping up the entire time.

"The doctor wants to discuss treatment options with Sam," he tells her.

"Okay," she agrees.

When they began their walk to Sam's room, Liz pauses and both men turn.

"We only have one badge," she notes as she looks between herself and Raymond Reddington. "We've been sharing it, taking turns visiting him."

The lie comes easier than she imagined.

The doctor's face pinched and he moved back to the nurse's desk. A few moments later, he hands Liz a badge.

"We usually make the one visitor rule an exception for the, umm, partners of family members," the doctor notes.

She watches as he briefly glances at their hands and notices no rings as he stumbles through his statement. Her lips turn down for the briefest of moments as she runs the doctors statement through her mind and looks to the man next to her. They stand close together. She doesn't know why that just registered. He's in her bubble and she feels more comfortable than put off despite just meeting the man for the first time.

Liz opens her mouth to correct the doctor's assumptions but Sam's friend has other plans.

"Come on, sweetheart," he says.

She catches the gleam of playfulness in his eyes and he looks entirely too comfortable circumventing the system. She wonders how often he does this kind of thing.

Strangely, she doesn't correct the assumption after he's made the spectacle.

His hand is at the middle of her back again as they make their way to Sam's room. It only drops when they make themselves know to the man who had been impatiently waiting for their return back in the room.

"Morning, Mr Milhoan," Sam's doctor said as he looked to the man in the bed and then to all three occupants. He grabbed the clipboard off the foot of the bed and perused the file before setting his lips in a grim expression. "Here's what's happening."


	3. Chapter 3

She couldn't sleep. She sat up all night and read one of her textbooks in hopes it would put her to sleep. It didn't. Her mind just couldn't shut off. Wouldn't shut off. She was half tempted to log onto Sam's computer and look up what she should be expecting from all this but Sam's desktop was too far from the couch and the thing took forever to simply get started. She was half sure that he still used dial up despite the advances to the speed and connection of technology nowadays. She must have slept somewhere between her thoughts and her textbook because the next thing she knows, its morning and the little window let a lot of light in. She cursed a night on the awful couch Sam would never get rid of and stretched the kinks out of her back and she sat up fully. Although only twenty-six (almost twenty-seven), a night of sleeping on the couch makes her feel more like ninety.

She takes a longer shower than necessary but she thinks it's worth it. She doesn't feel as tired nor does her back protest much as the heat seeps into her tired and aching muscles. Since she can't cook, she forgoes the kitchen and hopes Aunt June doesn't make an appearance at the hospital today. And she hopes the coffee carts at the hospital at least sell a muffin or something. Psyching herself up for the visit is taking a bit more energy than she thought and she practices her smile for Sam in the entry way mirror. She knows he'll see through it but its the best she can do given the circumstances.

She arrives to find him staring out the window, blissfully alone. There's nothing particularly fascinating about his view but as soon as he formally makes his first treatment, he'll be reduced down below ICU and into the cancer floor, he called it. The doctor said it was a good thing. Sam just wanted out. And of course she couldn't blame him. When the doctor discussed the treatments and left it to them to discuss, Sam looked more sullen. His friend, the one she had just met, was a great help to actually get Sam to speak rather than stare blankly at something passed her shoulder. When the two had left last night with Sam's option cemented in writing and verbally discussed with his doctor, Sam's friend had walked her to her car, Sam's car. He hadn't asked if she was all right; somehow he knew not to ask a question like that. He had, however, asked if she was all right driving home. She had given him a half-smile of thanks and told him she would be. She noticed he stood rooted to his spot until she left his sight with the car, turning onto the two-lane road and headed for home.

"Hi," she says as she taps on the doorframe.

He turns to face her and lets out a brief cough before returning her greeting.

She walks closer to the bed and notices that the blanket she brought yesterday is resting comfortably over his lap. The blanket holds a lot of memories for the two of them. From the days when he wrapped it around her fevered form as she stayed home from school to the nightmares she was plagued with as a little child, the blanket always made an appearance. He told her the blue was like the ocean. Fire can't survive in the ocean, he told her as he wrapped the blue blanket around her little body in the after effects of the nightmares. She'd give him a little laugh through her tears. Of course she now knew it was a saying to keep the nightmares at bay but it worked. He had claimed all the sick bugs thought she was an ice cube and wouldn't attack her anymore if she was wrapped up when sick. Of course, the theory was never proven and she quickly caught onto the game when she was older. But he never stopped wrapping it around her and she never once told him to stop. It was soothing to her. The soft material was worn over the years but it was loved. She hopes it will bring him some comfort.

She thinks it stupid to ask how he is. But she does it anyway.

"Butterball," he whispers. He avoids the question.

"You're going to be fine, Daddy. I know it," she tries.

He attempts a smile but it's a lot of effort this early in the morning.

She sits down heavily in the padded chair. Her smile is small but warm. She's trying.

"You didn't sleep," he notices as he grabs for one of her hands.

"Studying," she says as she has half a mind to look to the messenger bag at her feet.

"Don't let your old man's cough get in the way of your future," he tells her.

She hates that he calls it a cough. It's so much more than a cough. A cough can be cured with simple cough syrup. Cancer has to be eradicated. With gamma rays and chemo and a hell of a drug cocktail. He'll lose weight; lose his appetite; perhaps his hair; he'll have days where he can't get out of bed because he'll be so depressed and days where he feels on top of the world. And she won't be here for any of that because he doesn't want her here. He doesn't want her to see him like this. She tried to argue last night but he ended the conversation with a hand. Last night she had looked to Sam's friend who was in the corner of the room listening to their argument but not saying a thing. She thinks both of them had forgotten about him standing in the shadows. She had whispered a sorry, kissed her father's temple goodnight, and left with another look at Raymond, half apologizing that he had to see what he had witnessed. Of course, the man had caught up with her moments later and walked her out.

A nurse interrupts the quiet musings of both occupants of the room and Liz leans back into the visitor's chair but doesn't let go of Sam's hand until he has to climb into the wheelchair the nurse has wheeled in with her. She adjusts the blanket over his knees. The doctor had warned them last night the treatment makes some patients cold. She hopes he's warm enough.

"I'll wait here," she notes. He had been adamant she was not to be in treatment with him. She'll wait until they give her his new room. Then she'll try and do something to kill the time between now and the finishing of his first round.

A half reassuring smile on his lips is all she gets.

* * *

His shoes are the first things she sees over her textbook. She has it angled just right as she leans back against the visitor's chair and props her legs up on Sam's bed. Its still early and visiting hours just started a few minutes ago, according to the sounds that she attempts to drown out in the hallway. She wishes she had enough energy to close the door and drown out the constant hum of the hallway outside but its too far of a walk and she's relatively comfortable despite the awkward position she is assuming. She doesn't hear him walk in nor does she notice that he's shut the door to drown out the hallway. She's wrapped up in her head and only keeps the textbook open for posterity at this point. She expects the fine brown leather to be attached to a noisy sole of a dress shoe but instead they are a rubber, sort of composite material. When he shifts, what she assumes is his head most likely covered by a fedora, the sun slips over his shoulders and into her face. The light reflects the top of the shoe and she can see it has that waterproof coating. It's very fine and probably very expensive but waterproofing leather is key and she doubts the man in front of her ever learned that the hard way.

The highlighter cap between her teeth drops and is teetering between her lips as she focuses on the shoes rather than the words in her book.

"Bio-psycho social aspects of criminal behavior," his voice reads just out of her line of sight from the textbook.

She peers up from the text and finds herself face to face with her father's enigmatic friend, Raymond. She blinks and transitions from the study of his shoes to staring at the man in front of her. He looks impeccably dressed despite the early hour. He holds out a yellow-orange to-go coffee cup. Her hand reaches up automatically and their fingers brush against one another as the cup is passed off. She notices his lips part so slight that she wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been staring at his face. She wordlessly thanks him. The highlighter falls from between her lips and she caps the pen and shuts it in her book before tossing it onto the end of Sam's empty bed.

She lifts the lid off the coffee and inhales the rich aroma emanating from the cup.

"Vanilla Spice?" she asks. "How'd you know?"

He smiles and removes the lid of his own to-go cup as he now stands across from her on the other side of the bed. He removes his coat and fedora and places it on the end of the hospital bed before sitting down in the plastic chair she sat in the night before when it was just the three of them discussion Sam's options.

"Sam might have mentioned it," he told her.

Her head tilts in his direction and her chin lifts to see what he prefers.

"White ginger tea," he says as he tilts the paper cup ever so slightly so she can see into the depths. It's a light tea with robust flavor when steeped for a while. She expected a dark tea. Perhaps something with bite or that smoky smell that came with dark teas.

She doesn't expect the light tea choice from someone that is so poised and polished.

"Thinking about becoming a criminal?" He quips.

"I think I look too much like a cop to ever be a criminal, don't you?" She asks.

"I think with the right motivation, anyone can become a criminal," he says cryptically.

The corners of her lips turn to a frown but otherwise she gives nothing away.

"Of course you're speaking from experience," she laughs.

His laugh rings low and she can't help but smile and shake her head.

"Of course," he quips. "Don't I look like a master criminal?"

The words are light and jesting but there's something in his tone that makes her want to question him further. But she doesn't because she doesn't really know him and would like to find out more about him before trying to profile him.

She watches as he shifts under her gaze. Its slight but she notices.

She watches as he sips her tea and she does the same with her latte.

"FBI," she says finally.

"Pardon?" He asks after he swallows a sip of his tea.

"I'm in training to be in the FBI," she tells him. "At the, at the Quantico training facility. I'm in the first phase of training... there's uh, there's two phases."

His eyebrows raise and she wonders if his response will be like everyone else's. He's read the title of her textbook and he looks intelligent enough to put two and two together.

"You enjoy forensic psychology. Thinking about the BAU?" He asks.

Her head tilts in slight confusion. No one ever begins with that. They always chuckle and ask why.

"You know what the BAU is?" She asks. And immediately regrets it because it sounds stupid. Of course people know what it is. She thinks they now have a program on the television serializing a very fictional aspect of the BAU.

"I was Naval Intelligence once upon a time," he tells her.

She sips at her coffee he brought her and rolls that over in her mind.

"Were you a liaison?" She asks.

He nods once.

"FBI?" She tries.

He chuckles.

"CIA?"

Chuckles again.

"NSA?"

He chuckles but he tilts his head ever so slightly.

She finally got it. Third time is the charm, she thinks. However, she knows he can't talk about it. His job was highly classified, no doubt. She briefly wonders what made him switch careers to whatever he does now from Naval Intelligence. She thinks she'll save that conversation for later.

"I'm close to a board certification in forensic psychology. I need a few hundred more hours. I wanted to do the internship in New York at their PMRT," she tells him. "But I don't want to go to the BAU. It's too... too dark."

He nods but says nothing else.

"What do you do now?" She asks out of the blue after a few minutes of silence.

Both of his brows jump slightly and he gets a tic in his cheek as he pauses to look at her.

"Hedge funds," he tells her.

"You know that no one actually knows what a hedge fund guy does," she notes.

"Much like concierges," he laughs.

Her face scrunches in confusion and she thinks she's missing out on a joke.

"I invest, broker deals," he says as he waves a hand. "Dabble in various dealings."

She nods and watches him as he gives her a half smile as she stares at him over the rim of her cup.

As she sips her coffee and she feels the little jolt of caffeine enter her form, she begins to smell something other than iodine and bleach in the room.

"What smells so good?" She asks.

He chuckles and produces a brown bag from somewhere she can't see. He sets it on the bed between them and she slowly inches it over to her side. Her coffee absently goes to the food tray and she uses both hands to open the bag.

She glances at the take out containers and opens the three. She has to close her eyes and inhale the aroma because she's afraid the lack of food and coffee is going to her mind and this is all a dream.

"Navajo breakfast tacos," he tells her as she closes her eyes. "Though not as good as the ones in Tuba City, the hotel I'm staying at does make a decent one."

"Where is Tuba City?" She asks curiously.

"Middle of nowhere, Arizona," he says.

She looks at him with a skeptical eye but looks to the other take out container and he continues.

"Rosemary and maple home fries," he notes. He closes his eyes and a hand goes to rest on his stomach as he leans back in his chair. "Never had better ones. A hint of spice, the smallest pinch of paprika and cayenne pepper. The rosemary isn't overwhelming like I expected it to be yesterday. And adding more maple syrup to the maple they added when cooking. Simply divine. Almost rivals my own home fries."

"You cook?" She wonders.

"Everyone can cook," he tells her.

She laughs. She's a disaster in the kitchen. Sam's tried to teach her basics but he's subpar at best which means she's less than subpar.

"Except for maybe Sam," he concedes. "And perhaps by extension, you."

"Yeah," she says as she looks down and away from him. Her eyes look to the meal he's brought.

She thinks the combination of Navajo tacos and home fries is strange but she'll take his word for it.

"Thank you," she whispers as she passes one of the takeout boxes back over to him. She places the potatoes in the middle of the bed. She roots around the bottom of the bag and finds a small bottle of syrup that's in a maple leaf shaped container but ignores it as she notes there is real silverware and napkins in place of the traditional paper and plastic.

"Really?" She asks as she hands the utensils and napkin over.

"The hotel isn't really one for plastic and paper," he notes.

She eyes him but she decides to eat her meal instead.

* * *

Sam's asleep when they're ushered into the new room on the new floor. The doctor says he will be for quite sometime. Despite sitting for a long period of time with nothing to do but feel the chemicals rush through you, it wears a person down. The nurse says he did well. She nods with watery eyes and avoids looking in the shadowed corner. She doesn't want his sympathy. She doesn't know what she wants. Visiting hours are almost over and Sam still hasn't stirred. Briefly she wonders if he's faking it for all their sakes and letting the first day go down as unusually uneventful. She doesn't know why but she suggests to her father's friend that they go somewhere else and let Sam sleep. Red nods almost too quickly and he has to carefully pull on his fedora and coat.

They ended up at the park he was at yesterday. It was the only place he really knew of to go to. Daylight savings has extended the hours of the sun and it shows in the long sunset that seems to never end. The sky is a yellow-orange reminiscent of gold bars and she wonders if he's ever seen a gold bar in person. As she looks at his profile, she notices the weariness in his posture. This time, he doesn't stay in the car. He steps out first, and she follows behind. He carries her bag on his shoulder like a gentleman would and she crosses her arms and walks with a gait that has her leaning in and brushing his shoulder when she folds into herself. She had tried to take it since its a little dangerous to leave things in the car, even if it's a relatively safe city. But he opened the backseat door before her and only smiled briefly as he heard her sigh. It's not the cold but the subject she speaks on. He wonders if she even knows that she's brushing against his side or if she's so far into the fog of dread and relief that its almost an out of body experience.

"Tell me about your job," he says as they walk the winding path to the little pond-lake situated in the middle of the park.

Its an olive branch. She doesn't want to discuss her father and he knows it. So, he extends this option. Because he really does want to get to know her. He knows her from afar. He knows what Sam's told him. He knows what he's had his people gather one her. But first hand knowledge has always been his favorite form of knowing someone.

"I have a deep yearning to understand and relate to the criminal mind."

She finally looks at him as she walks. He can feel her stare. She's waiting to be put down or have him laugh at her.

Instead of doing what she is used to, he looks over at her as she turns her head back to watching their shoes as they walk.

"Do you find the criminal mind different from, say, an FBI agent?" He asks.

She pauses. Falters in a step. Because she wasn't expecting it. She wasn't expecting a positive response.

He briefly upturns his lips and waits for her to continue walking.

"Psychopaths, perhaps," she says as she finally registers his question. "The ones who lack empathy. But the training is different. It makes you think differently. I've noticed there's an objectiveness to creating a profile of a suspect and looking at the criminal mind."

"And does your criminal past help the profiling?" He asks.

"I don't have a criminal past," she replies too quickly.

He looks her over. He knows better. She's too good on the brush pass to not have kept Sam's teachings up to date.

They walk in silence for a spell. It's not awkward or fraught with tension. Instead, she finds it easy and relatively comfortable. It frightens and soothes her at the same time. He finds an open bench that gives them a view of the skyline and perhaps if he knew the city better, he'd be able to spot the hospital from here. Sam's new room has a view of this park but its far off in the distance.

"You know," he says as they sit. "I once stole a strawberry bismarck from the corner bakery. I was eleven."

She laughs.

"Of course, I was experienced by then. I once smoked a cigar with a little girl when I was nine. I had no idea what I was doing but I wanted to be just like my father."

She can relate although she doesn't know Raymond's experience with his father nor the relationship they have now. But she can understand wanting to be like a role model. She's only ever really had her father to look up to. Being his shadow, she learned early on that he was the only person she could really trust to always be there for her. The first day of kindergarten, he had told her to make friends. She had clung to his leg and put on a brave face as he leaned down and kissed her forehead. She was big and brave, she thought as she watched him walk away. But being big and brave didn't mean she didn't cry as soon as the teacher ushered her fully inside. Sam taught her how to observe and she used that well in her schooling. Quietly watching from afar, assessing the situation in her mind before approaching. She had very few friends and was quiet but the one friend she had made in kindergarten had stuck with her until they went their separate ways in high school. She worries her scar as she debates whether to tell him a story of her past. Wonders if the opening is a tit for tat kind of deal; show and tell; tell me and I'll tell you.

"When I was fifteen, I stole one of Sam's cigarettes." She tells him. "I was running with the wrong crowd, looking back now. My only friend had changed her mind and became one of the popular kids so I had to find new ones. So, I found Frank and his friends. I stole it from his pack. He never really counted them. Just smoked until they were gone and he'd have to go but a new one before a job."

She pauses and looks up from worrying her fingers against her scarred palm to find him listening intently. The intensity might have been overbearing for some. But because of the lack of confidants and friends over the years, she finds it refreshing. For once, someone wants to hear what she has to say without getting paid to do so like her therapists or her advisors at school. Raymond was genuinely interested in her tale. She felt something well up deep within her.

"The pack he had that week was lemon flavored," she continued.

She cringed just thinking about it. His laugh was hearty and well worth the embarrassing tale.

"I think he was trying to quit that week. Or Aunt June must have tried to get him to quit by exchanging them. Even though I never smoked another cigarette or stole from him again," she continued. "It was... Exhilarating. You know. The feeling... The…"

"The rush," they complete at the same time.

She smiles and looks down at her hands. He looks at her. She nods.

"Yeah," she confirms. "That was the beginning."

"Sam taught you?" He wondered.

"He didn't want to at first. Said it wasn't the good kind of family business and I needed to stay straight. But he knew Frank's reputation. Frank was a wanna-be crook. He didn't really have the skill so he was caught a lot. But of course they let him go because his dad was the sheriff or something. I guess he figured if he couldn't pick who I was hanging out with, he might as well teach me something useful. If I ever got caught though..."

"There'd be no help from him," he finished.

She nodded.

He wondered if Sam would have asked for his help if she ever was caught. At that time, he wasn't really keeping track of her. Sam would update him with some stories but they were few and far between. He was building his reputation and amassing his collection of criminals, spies, hackers, and assassins that he's still amassing today. He would have helped. And he doesn't know whether her colorful past makes her more interesting to him or not. He wants more after the taste he now has.

The golden light of the sun setting between the buildings hits her in a light that reflects off her. The orange glow radiates off her pale skin and it creates a healthy glow in her otherwise exhausted state. He tilts his head and watches as the light hits her hair as well. It gives the highlights in her hair a coppery tone and he wonders what her hair looks like naturally. The color change she chemically done hasn't overwhelmed the natural color but its changed the first few layers of her hair enough. But he sees the roots of her natural color. He remembers the dark hair of her past but she seems to have found a way into the trend of highlights and lowlights. He thinks the growing length suggests she's slowly growing the highlights out, making herself more professional looking. He wonders if she'll change her hair or keep it this length when she graduates phase one.

"They're trying to drown out the original thinking... make it so objective and linear," she says suddenly. As if she feels the need to fill the void of silence that surrounds them.

"Funny, isn't it," he agrees once he remembers their original conversation. "How training dilutes and corrupts the brilliant minds."

"Naval Intelligence teach you that?" she asks.

"And life," he nods.

She leans in closer. By conscious or unconscious moves, he's not sure.

"They want you to catch the monster," Red begins. "But they're obligated to follow protocols and think objectively. Criminals hardly think objectively. They're motivated by three things: who they know, what they want, and what they know."

There's a quietness that settles but its charged with something she can't identify. He gets this tic in his jaw and moves it slightly before speaking again.

"Revenge is hardly objective," he finally settles. "It's very... personal, especially when you need answers to questions no one wants to answer."

She watches as his thumb twitches quietly against his thigh and she carefully sets her hand atop his. He doesn't look at her. Instead he looks to the water and the view in front of him. She doesn't mind. She's busy wondering if he's speaking from some sort of experience. Her fingers curl around his and she thinks he briefly tightens his fingers against hers in a silent sort of response to her.

He pulls away a moment later and she understands more than he knows. Not about what he revealed but the attempt of comfort or understanding or whatever reason he thinks she touched him. She tries not to swallow hard but she does so anyway.

"Its getting late," he says.

"Okay," she nods.

As they walk back to the car at an even slower then the pace they set when they walked into the park and to the bench, his hand ghosted against hers. It was slight and fleeting but a silent apology for pulling away. He had his reasons though. If she knew who he really was, it could end in disaster for everyone involved. He only meant to stay and catch a glimpse of her. But the pull was too great and he's found himself stuck in this in-between that is bad for business. Her sad yet hopeful turn of her lips makes him hate himself even more. He hates the little white lies.


	4. Chapter 4

One week on, three weeks off. That's how his chemotherapy treatment was explained to both of them by the doctor and the nurses who came in and wrote in shorthand on the clipboard hanging off the foot of the bed. Day five post-treatment finds Sam still isn't doing well. Of course he's responding to the drugs like normal. The count seems to be dwindling from their initial test. But they'll know for sure at the end of the full week in two days. It's the side effects that don't help the situation. He wasn't eating and drinking. Anything they did get down him, came back up and he was confined to the bed which makes him feel like an invalid. There were leads that kept him nourished and hydrated but she can feel the effects of the chemotherapy when she holds his chilled hand; when she kisses the hollow of his cheek as she leaves every night; when she sees what an effort it is to talk to the two of them. So, he mostly stays silent and gives a few clipped answers. The guilt is eating away at her. Guilt for what: she has no idea.

He watches his friend and his daughter interact. They're mostly there for him and talk to him, Liz more than Raymond. But he's noticed they'll escape the room for long periods of time. Sometimes he watches as his friend stands behind Liz's chair rather than sitting himself in the other. He'd lean against the back and his steadying hand will brush his thumb against her shoulder or her neck. He doesn't miss the way Lizzie seems to relax against the movement. He wants to know what happened in the in between. Why they seem so comfortable with one another yet they're still strangers. But he's seen Lizzie's real smile and that certainly hasn't happened anytime she'd been here as of late and it was few and far between before that. He wishes this wasn't so complicated. He wishes Lizzie could have a simple, boring life.

With Sam in and out and in treatment a few hours a day, Liz spends a lot of time with Raymond. They find themselves in the garden for most of the time. She thinks the fresh air does them both good. She notices the deep yet subtle breaths they both seem to take as they wait for him to adjust his fedora before walking outside the shadows of the building and through the gravel pathway. Sam's room has a direct view of the healing gardens. She only knows this because one day she has been with Sam and noticed Raymond sitting with another man outside on their bench. She thought it was strange to refer to it as their bench but her mind has made it up and it just comes out as such in her thoughts. Raymond was on a phone that she hadn't seen him take out once, and talks for a few minutes to whomever was on the other end with a few unconscious hand gestures. When the other man, who looks more like a former army man or bodyguard of some sort disappears, he looks up and they find each other. He gives her a half nod and she lifts her arm in an awkward half wave. She escapes the view of the window and retreats back to Sam's side. He wakes a bit and she stumbles through an apology as she takes his hand in hers. His hands are cold and she absently begins to rub them for warmth. He asks how she's doing and she plasters a smile onto her face, telling him not to worry about her; she's fine. When Raymond makes it into the room, she stutters an apology and he waves it off.

A coughing jag hits Sam and she bites her lip and lets go of his hand as he curls away from her. She swallows hard as she witnesses this and wishes there was an easier way to cure the cancer.

She takes one look at Sam's friend, one look at Sam, and excuses herself.

Sam waited a few minutes before he finally spoke.

"She's not taking it well," he notes.

"No," Red says bluntly.

Sam breathes in as if he's about to cough again but it gets stuck somewhere in his throat and the sound is strangled in the room.

Red frowns and rubs at his temple.

"I thought you were leaving the other day," Sam points out.

Red laughs. Its a hollow sound and lingers as his lips upturn and then settle into a line.

"The money for your treatments are in a separate account," Red avoids the observation by the man in the bed. "Your insurance won't cover a lot so there should be enough in the new account. Luli will be settling up with the hospital at the end of the week and direct deposits will be made. You'll never see the account but know its all taken care of."

Sam's cough finally gets to him and Red winces at the wet sound but nothing comes up other than Sam off his mound of pillows as he tries to curl into himself. He helps his friend settle back into the pillows when the jag ends. Sam winces and wheezes a little and Red opens and closes his mouth, at a loss for words.

"What you did that night," Red begins as he leans his hip onto the bed and settles a hand at Sam's head pillow as he leans over the frail man. "What you continue to do. The selflessness. You don't deserve this, Sam."

"Lung cancer from a habit forged when I was fifteen?" Sam tries to smile but it comes out as a wince. "Everything catches up to you eventually."

Red sighs.

"I'm bringing a doctor here," he tells Sam. "There's a new experimental treatment with a new type of radiation and you're in the trial group. Its shown great promise. I'll have her outline the treatment to both of you."

"Will I be able to feel my toes and not feel like I'm in an icebox?" He jests.

"The side effects seem to be minimal," Red tells him. "Less then what this route is doing to you. If you keep this up, there's not much of you left to fight. Lizzie's not ready to lose you."

"Just Lizzie?" Sam asks.

Red dips his chin in acknowledgement. He's not ready to loose his oldest and dearest, true, and perhaps only friend.

"As long as she's hot," Sam laughs as he brings the light atmosphere back and for once it doesn't turn into a coughing spasm.

Red shakes his head.

"She's right up your alley," Red smiles. "And she'll answer Lizzie's questions in layman's terms."

"Lizzie?" Sam asks. His voice cracks in pitch and he raises a brow.

Red doesn't acknowledge the nickname and gets up from the bed he leans on and stands at the window. He watches the grounds and sees her sitting on the bench. He hides a smile as he notices it's the same spot he just vacated earlier. She's sitting with her elbows on her thighs, hands in front of her. She worries her scar on her palm and he looks back to Sam. The man is watching him closely.

"Go," Sam tells him. "I tried to warn her but I can see its futile."

* * *

He takes his time and adjusts the fedora around his hair before he steps out of the shadows of the hospital to walk to the gardens. He realized in his haste to escape Sam's room, he had forgotten to put on his suit jacket and coat. He walks at a sedate pace, keeping his head up and her in his sights until he reaches the bench. Instead of asking permission to sit like one of them usually does, he sits next to her without a word. He's done away with the distance and sits almost flush against her side. When she sits up straight and leans back against the bench, her shoulder brushes against his own.

"Lizzie?" He asks quietly. He wants to ask how she is but its futile. He already knows how she's doing.

"You keep doing that," she notes quietly.

He raises a brow.

"Calling me Lizzie," she concludes.

"I'm sorry," he says quickly.

"No," she shakes her head and quickly backtracks. "It's fine."

It's a different kind of Lizzie than her father's endearment of her name. He doesn't use it often but it stirs something within her. Its confusing but also welcoming.  
He nods once in response.

There's a silence that develops and once again its familiar and comforting. He feels her lean into him. Its not that noticeable but he can feel the weariness from her seep into his form as the brief space between them closes. Its very different from days ago when they began to sit next to each other an arm's length away. He tries to give her back something to hold onto.

"Your father is going to be fine, Lizzie," he tells her.

She wants to know why he knows. Why he's so confident when Sam's withering away in front of them and its only been five days. How can he survive months of this if he can barely get through the first five days. And they haven't even touched on if radiation would help.

"The doctor won't talk to me," she confides. "He touts his medical degree in front of me as some sort of wooing technique and uses scare tactics to confront the reality of the situation. As if I can't see what its doing to Sam."

"You can tout your doctorate in front of him," he says simply.

She cracks a smile and lets out a breathy laugh. She wonders how he knows about her educational achievements but then chalks it up to Sam and his constant need to put her on a pedestal of success.

It was the response he was looking for.

Sadly, it didn't last long and the smile dropped from her face moments later.

His fingers twitch against his thigh once. The digits rub against the twill of his pants and he hesitates only a brief second before he reaches out. His wrist moves over her own as he slips his hand into hers. His fingers slowly curl around her palm and her thumb covers his own. The digit brushes over his and the recess of his heart sang in relief. He didn't know if it was an unconscious or conscious move but it was a step. He knew words weren't what she needed right now. The cliché was that actions spoke louder than words, but he's found sometimes there really is nothing to say to fill the void brought on by silence. And with her whole world crumbling around her as Sam gets sicker and sicker from treatment with little answers as to why, she needed something to hold onto.

When her hand squeezes his and brings their palms closer, his cheek twitches and he closes his eyes for a brief moment. He relishes the warmth from the midday sun and the feeling of her hand in his.

"You shouldn't be alone," he notes.

There's a hint of worry in his features and in his tone as she looks at him.

"I'm fine," she says quickly. Too quickly.

She runs her free hand through her hair and sighs. She looks out at the sun that's beginning to set in front of them and sighs. "I'm not."

"I know."

He doesn't say it in a condescending manner. More like he knows what she's going through. And somewhere in the back of her mind she knows that he's going through something of his own. And not just Sam. She can see it. Feel it, really. The way his stare lingers a little too long; the way he hesitates touching her yet once she gives her silent consent it feels as though he's afraid she's going to disappear. She thinks about another night alone. Leaning against Sam's bedroom door as she lingers in the familiarity. She's not getting enough sleep and she thinks maybe another presence might help. Maybe it would be good for both of them.

"Okay," she agrees.

He notes that they will wait for Sam to finish with his tests and then he'll drive. When they walk back to Sam's room, her hand doesn't leave his. And when she separates for a brief moment to speak with Sam, he watches as she curls her hand into a closed fist. She kisses Sam's temple and moves away as the nurse comes in with her equipment to test Sam. Her hand brushing against his as she joins him at the window is a deliberate thanks. She thinks he understands as she notices the smallest hint of an upturn of his lips.

* * *

The Mercedes pulls into the driveway and he turns over the key and waits for her to get out first. He hadn't seen this house in well over twenty years. The outside still looked the same. Albeit in need of a few repairs. The icy chunks of snow don't linger here and he thinks maybe this place gets all the sunlight. It would be fitting, really. He almost chuckles aloud but then he'd have to bring her up to speed and that doesn't seem like a particularly appealing idea at the moment.  
She lets them both in. Her keyring holds the minimal amount of keys and she closes her eyes as she steps in the door and lets him pass. She opens them a moment later and he can see her shoulders sag with relief. Aunt June has stayed away. Thanks in part to him. He didn't want his identity revealed quite yet. She drops the messenger bag full of books by the couch and he looks around at the house. It's all relatively the same. As if he's taken a step back in time and finds himself at the period when his life turned to a living hell. Surprisingly, he doesn't recede into himself. He follows her around like a shadow and she retreats to the kitchen and opens the fridge to find absolutely nothing.

"Take out?" She suggests as she looks back to where he is leaning against the framed entry way of the kitchen.

She suddenly realizes that the only time she's been eating is when he's brought her food at the hospital.

He has a better idea.

"Where's the closest store?" He asks.

"A mile back," she says as she half points in the direction they came from by car.

"I'll give you a skill Sam wasn't able to," he tells her at her curious look.

"Good luck with that," she whispers under her breath as she slips from the room and collects a credit card and her ID from her bag's pocket.

* * *

Shopping for ingredients for their dinner is strangely intimate. It gives her an insight into his mind. He grabs one of the hand baskets as the door and places it on the opposite side of him that she is on. The first place they go is the produce section in the store.

"I can assume by the lunches, you aren't vegetarian," he says as he absently looks at the various fresh herbs.

"Um, no I'm not," she confirms. He's brought her burritos and various protein-packed salads the last three days. They vary but she always wondered how he knows she detests sandwiches but loves most other lunch things. She also wonders how he gets the meals when she's been by his side most of the time. Of course, there are a few hours they aren't with each other every single moment, but they are together more often than not. Perhaps it's the mysterious man she saw him with.

He selects a few bunches of cilantro and holds them up, perhaps weighing them, she's not sure. With one selected, he places the others back and she watches him reach above his head for one of the produce bags. When he places the bunch of herbs into the bag and then the basket, he turns to face her.

"Allergies?" He wonders.

"No," she tells him.

He begins to slowly walk away and she follows. Her shoulder brushing against his arm on more than one occasion.

"What are you making?" She asks as he veers towards the coconuts.

"Curry," he says. "Well, an Americanized version called coconut curried lentils. My bodyguard makes a delicious curry and I've finally been handed down the recipe. I have yet to make it myself so it will be a trial for both of us."

"Curry?" She wonders aloud.

"It's much easier than you think, Lizzie," he smiles at her and gives a brief chuckle at her incredulous look.

As they go up and down the aisle for the ingredients, she questions him about why he chose one product over the other. She's insatiable with the questions but she's trying to establish some kind of knowledge of food and thinks if he's survived this long, he obviously knows how to cook. And as he tells her about the dish they will be preparing, her stomach grumbles.

When they're in line, he sets the items out of the basket rather than putting the whole thing on and letting the cashier take them out. With him busy, as soon as the cashier swipes the first few items and he busies himself with putting the basket down by the register's end where the other lone baskets are, she swipes her card.

"Lizzie," he sighs when he notices the card in her hand.

She smiles victoriously. She knew he would pay for it outright but didn't want him to do that. After all, wasn't the host supposed to do the sort of thing like cooking and making sure guests were fed? And he was the guest. He was here by choice and not some familial obligation. He came because of the unknown tie he has with Sam. The least she could do was pay for the food.

He pays her back by having her carry the wine while he carries the rest.

She laughs as he attempts to dig the keys out of his pocket while simultaneously holding onto all the rest of the groceries. However, he succeeds and the smile playing on his lips makes her sigh in relief that he found the humor in it as well.

* * *

"I don't know how to cook," she reminds him.

She watches as he ignores her statement and instead he pours a deep burgundy colored wine into one of the few wine glasses Sam has in his collection. He never asked if she was a wine type of person but she shrugs it off. She barely touches any of the alcoholic stuff these days. At least, not while on the dry training grounds. No, she has tea as a comfort in place of the hard stuff. He swirls the small amount, holds it to his nose before the wine travels up the bulb, sips without a noise, and he licks his lips.

"Would you like to try?" He asks. He holds out the wine glass and raises a brow in question.

She doesn't know wine. But she thinks he is sophisticated enough to pick something out even a wine novice like her would enjoy. She takes the stem from his fingers and the pull is magnetic. His hands are soft yet calloused and dry at the same time. She ignores the feeling fluttering in the recess of her stomach as she copies his movements.

"What do you taste?" He asks as she sets the glass down and he reaches for the bottle, filling the glass to the appropriate imaginary line.

"Grapes?" she shrugs. She's never been good at this. She doesn't know the differences in the wines and will just drink it if she's told.

He smiles briefly and shakes his head slightly.

She absently fondles the glass and ends up with the side he had used sitting in front of her. She takes a sip and watches as his eyes never leave her lips. His mouth mimicked hers ever so slightly as she wills her mouth to find some sort of response.

"Like slate, almost," she says. "It's dry. Good aftertaste, I guess. Like… blackberry."

His little smile in the corner of his lips could go either way for her.

"Very good," he nods. His eyes leave her form and he pours himself a glass of wine.

She swallows the rest of the small tasting he poured and watches as he pours her a glassful from the one they both drank from.

"I'll get the ingredients in order," he says as he takes a sip of his own wine and nods to the bags sitting on the counter.

As she begins to lean back into the barstool she sits on, he smirks.

"Don't get too comfortable, Lizzie. You'll be my sous chef."

She lets out a quick chuckle. He'll probably be regretting that decision.

* * *

"Come here Lizzie," he says as he looks over at her still leaning back against the barstool.

She slides off the stool and makes her way around the island to his side of the kitchen.

He slips the newly sharpened knife from his hands and lays it on the counter and watches her come to his side. She stands next to him and he chuckles, he puts his hand on her shoulders and moves her in front of him.

"Do you prefer to see the onion or simply taste it?" He asks.

"See it?" She half shrugs and the pitch of her answer suggests that she was trying to defer to his answer.

He nodded.

"Instead of a dice, we'll chop," he says.

"I once did below average in seventh grade home economics on this knife skill test," she informs him.

He chuckles.

He's careful not to touch her but steps up closer and tells her to take the knife in her hand. He's already halved the onion and peeled back the skin and the first layer to reveal a translucent bulb. He folds her fingers to her first knuckle on her non-knife hand and makes her cup the onion half so she can chop without chopping her fingers off. His other hand comes around her and acts as a knife. As he begins to speak, her head tilts so he can see what he's doing. She doesn't miss as his cheek inches closer to her own. And still, his front does not touch her back.

"Slice this width," he notes. "Try to keep the onion relatively together as you chop. It should be easy since I left the core intact."

"Okay," she whispers.

He steps back and watches her at her side. He watches the knife as it rocks timidly back and forth.

"It's okay to use a little more force, Lizzie," he tells her. "It's an onion; if anything, you'll cry before it does."

She laughs a little breathy nervous thing and nods. Her strokes are better, bolder, and she finishes the first half with success.

"Now turn the entire half you chopped and do the same."

She nodded and instead of turning the onion on the chopping board, she turns the board itself.

He only raises a brow and keeps the laughter internal.

"Feel free to chop the other half," he tells her as he moves to the grocery bag and pulls the spices out as well as the black rice and the red lentils.

"I assume you already know how to boil rice and lentils."

"I can read directions," she says after a brief moment of silence as he digs through the cupboards to find two pots and a frying pan. She's never had the latter but she trusts whatever he's making won't make her hate them.

When she finishes the onion she turns and finds him rooting through the drawers for she assumes is a measuring cup.

"Next drawer," she points out.

She hears his huff and she smiles at his back. She watches as he measures out the liquid and the salt is dashed into the water with one hand as he turns the burners on with the other.

* * *

She burns the onions. She isn't paying attention to the pan because she's busy watching him read her dissertation. He found it on his perusal of Sam's bookshelf in the living room just outside the kitchen and simply directs her from her old position. Occasionally, he sips at his wine and without looking up, tells her to do the same. She does so automatically. He looks up as she curses and marks his page before standing and moving towards her and the stove.

He helps her clear the pan of onions, garlic, and olive oil into a dish until the oil is cooled off.

"Let's try it again," he tells her as he wields the extra onion in his hands. It's the one thing she was in charge of that needed her attention: making the onions and garlic brown just enough before they add the spices, diced tomatoes, coconut milk, and then the lentils. But she messed that one up.

She watches as he quickly chops the onion and minces the garlic. He does it twice as fast and more efficient than her but at least she now knows the difference between a dice, a chop, and a mince.

"All right," he says and nods to the pan. "Oil."

She pours until he says to stop and turns the flame on again. When the oil heats just enough, he adds a slice of butter and she frowns.

"Evens out the temperature of the two. Butter is a low and oil is a hot. Mix the two and it's better for beginners."

She wonders why he didn't just start her off with that. He hands her the cutting board and she slides the onions into the pan.

Instead of returning to her dissertation, he stands next to her as she stands at the stovetop.

"How come I've never seen you before?" She wonders.

He tilts his head just so and his fingers twitch slightly.

"You're not in any pictures that I've seen and I don't think Sam's ever mentioned you," she notes.

"I've known Sam for most of mine and all of your life," he notes.

"You were Naval Intelligence," she notes. "Is Sam in trouble? Was he?"

He shakes his head.

"No," he tells her honestly. Because Sam's not the one in trouble. He is. She is. Its all very complicated and he's tried to stay away but can't this time around.

"Why come back now?" She asks.

He pauses and briefly interrupts her interrogation to tell her to add the garlic and stir. He reaches around her and lowers the flame temperature.

"To make sure he was okay," Red told her. "And if he wasn't, get him anything he needed to be okay."

"He's not going to get better, is he?" She asked quietly.

He notices she refuses to look up from the slowly browning onions and doesn't know whether its for trying to not fail a second time or the subject matter but one of his hands slips to her shoulder and turns her so she's facing him.

"If I told you I may have another means that could help him, would you hear it out?" He wonders.

She stares. She stares for what seems like forever and he takes the rubber spatula from her and leans across her to fix the onions and garlic all while holding her stare.

"Is there?" She asks.

"Possibly," he nods.

She bites her lip and nods.

"I need options. He needs options," she whispers.

"The doctor will be on the first flight out tomorrow," he notes. He gives her the rubber spatula back and notes that her posture seems a little less defeated.

He takes to his wine and brings it over as he watches her and the food. He watches as she takes up her own and briefly smiles at her.

She's quite a bit more successful with the hands on approach he takes this time around as he watches when she measures out the cayenne, cumin, salt, pepper, ginger, and turmeric.

Soon enough, he pours in the canned diced tomatoes as she adds the can of coconut milk.

The lentils are added to the dish to get re-heated and he takes two plates out of the cabinets and spoons the black rice into the middle and brings the two plates over to her. She turns the burner off and gets a spoon from a drawer beside her. He makes her pile on a generous amount of the coconut curried lentils onto the black rice and he nods to the cilantro. He maneuvers the plates away as she tries to put entire sprigs onto the top.

"The leaves," he notes.

She looks down in embarrassment but plucks just enough and then sprinkles them onto the lentil and rice dish.

He declares the meal ready to eat and carries the two plates over to the table. She follows along with their wine glasses.

* * *

She forgets about Sam for the briefest of moments. Not necessarily forgets the man but forgets his predicament.

She listens to his tamer stories. He sees the way her eyes light up at the thought of traveling to all these exotic locals and he wonders if she'd ever wear a guayabera dress and stand on the shores of Cuba with the wind whipping at her hair as she admires the beauty of the country. He could see her in the walled city of Dubrovnik, eating meals along the sea wall and taking a dingy out to explore the rock formations. He could even see her in Paris, marveling at the architecture. Perhaps sipping a coffee in the gardens. Even riding a bike past all the tourists as she finds little hole in the wall places and stores that sell vintage jewelry for her to dress up in on her down days. Simple pieces that she could possibly wear to work, even. Its a nice fantasy, he thinks. But its exactly that: a fantasy.

After another helping for each of them with both their wine and dinner, she does the dishes. He attempts a protest but is failed since she claims the chef wouldn't clean the dishes at a restaurant. It's why the employ busboys and dishwashers. He tries to argue that she did most of the cooking but she tells him that he's the guest. He must concede her point. So he attempts a few more pages of her dissertation as he sits on the couch and waits for her, but finds the quiet drawing him towards the kitchen. She's laying down the plates to dry on what he assumes is a dry and new towel.

He picks another from the open drawer of towels and stands at her side. Their arms brush as he steps closer and holds the towel up for their inspection. He takes a plate in his hands and rubs the water off with the thick looped cotton material.

"Sam never did understand the difference between a hand towel and a dish towel."

She looks at him with confusion.

"A dish towel is thinner," he notes the thickness of this particular towel and jerks his head towards the similar ones. "These you clean your hands with. Dish towels are absorbent and quick to dry because there's a less is more approach to the fabric."

He inspects the wineglass she hands him.

"Hand towels will leave spots in these," he notes.

"I don't think Sam really cares about the spots," she tells him.

"You're right," he agrees. "Just another lesson in your kitchen 101 book."

She smiles and her shoulder nudges his.

He laughs heartily.

* * *

She watches as he goes about the kitchen and puts the place in order again. She had told him he didn't need to do that, she'd do it in the morning. But he shrugged and told her it would be one less thing to do. When he's finished, he turns and finds her watching him intently. His brows furrow slightly and he runs a hand over the back of his neck as she moves closer. She lingers in the space between for the longest time. Their lips brush with the slightest accord and he thinks he almost imagines it. There's a little whimper in his throat begging to be released at he feels her getting closer. Her hands have settled at his waist and he can feel her upper body lean into his with the slightest of brushes as he closes his eyes involuntarily from the sensory overload. He thinks this moment right here will be the death of him. And he'd probably die happily if she just brushed her lips against his one last time.

Her nose brushes against his own as she changes her angle from right to left and he likes this more because there's more contact. A low whispered sound slips through his lips and he's about to turn with embarrassment when her lips finally give way and press more fully against his. Her lips are soft and supple and he's lost in the feel of them despite the chaste, close-mouthed kiss. Fortunately, it changes direction and she lowers herself onto flat feet and takes his lower lip between hers. The slight pressure of her teeth scraping against his, the slight tug as she shifts unconsciously has him folding into her hands like putty. One hand curls into her hair, the digits scraping ever so slightly against her scalp as he lowers his hand to the nape of her neck elicits the same sound she pulled from him, out of her.

He hears her breathing through her nose and a smile blooms across his lips unconsciously as he presses her closer. His tongue darts out, brushing across her lower lip, feeling her chapped lips hot and wet against his own. He moves quickly and he runs it along her teeth, begging wordlessly for entrance. She complies and he tastes their wine still lingering on her own tongue as it accidentally brushes against his own. He explores and finds he wants to consume this woman who might very well be the death of him one day. He doesn't want to stop his explorations but he must or it will quickly get out of hand and he retreats. He breathes quickly, as does she; he feels a bit light-headed and from the way she's seemingly digging for purchase against him and he knows she feels it, too. But he can't stop and she doesn't seem to be able to either and he may just continue to kiss her until she disappears or he wakes up because he's certain this is a dream. His self control is hanging on by mere threads as he presses quick, fleeting kisses to her lips in an effort to quell some of the desire running through him.

He opens his eyes and he's surprised at the effort it takes. There is this fog of desire that makes him want to lean in again but he staunches it and instead looks at her. The flush of desire is well documented on her skin. Her cheeks are stained a light pink and it runs down her neck and he sees it continue ever so slightly just past her collar bone. He watches the rise and fall of her chest and as she licks her lips unconsciously. She doesn't heave in breaths but its enough to be slightly more noticeable than a typical breath he's seen her take in. He bites back a groan as her hands whisper across the waistband of his pants and he shifts into her touch as she brushes against the slight swell of desire she knows she started.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. She lowers her head and licks her lips unconsciously. She steps back and clears her throat. "I shouldn't have done that. Its just…"

His brows lift in question and silently ask her to continue.

"No one… no one has taken me seriously," she finally gets out. "No one's ever really seen  _me_. You... I..."

His fingers curls into her hair and his finger brushes against her earlobe.

"Don't apologize," he tells her.

She nods once and doesn't look up. He tilts her chin until she's looking into his eyes. They're still wide with desire and he tries to ignore that part of himself.

"Don't apologize for who you are nor actions you act upon," he tells her.

She nods and his hand slips from holding her chin.

"Okay?" He drives it home.

"Okay," she whispers. She whispers it again and lifts her chin on her own accord to look at him. "Okay."

They stand there for a moment, simply looking at one another. He's the first to turn away. Her hand reaches out and stops him from his retreat. He raises a brow silently asking what he'd otherwise say aloud.

"You feel it," she notes. She waits and studies his face. "The pull. Even when we aren't in the same room..."

"Yes," he cuts her off with a sharp nod.

"Why?" She wonders.

The twitch of a smile is all she receives. She watches as her hand slips from his arm as he vacates the kitchen. As she turns out the lights on the space, she finds him on the couch and back to reading her dissertation instead of escaping to his car and rethinking his idea of not letting her be alone. She has no idea what captivates him about Floriana Campo but he's fascinated nonetheless.

As she tries to sit far away from him, perhaps let the awkwardness from their shared moment linger, he nixes the idea. He calls her name and waits until she gets the hint to sit beside him. He uses one hand to flip through the dissertation and his free hand lingers in the space between them. She finally slips her hand into his and her fingers play with the texture of his skin before she settles and entwines their fingers.


	5. Chapter 5

There is a soothing feeling as she plays with his fingers. He doesn't seem to mind as he only smiles and goes back to his reading of her dissertation and asking her the occasional question. Their fingers almost match and she thinks maybe everyone who is trained for the military or government service is given the same sort of callouses. His are just harder from more years of service. Hers are newer and still rather raw compared to his own. As she measures their hands, she finds the callouses fit together. She notes that mental observation and files it away to tell him later.

She grows restless and finds solace in reading her textbook. She reads through the social aspects of criminals and wonders if the textbook authors had ever sat down with a criminal or if they were simply going by the arrest records. The book notes that most are loners drifting with the wrong crowd. Although that applied to some offenders, her high school self included, there was more to the story. She believes there are criminals who fit in with the human population. The ones with political clout, who can schmooze a crowd and perhaps even create fake charities to launder their dirty money, and she hates that the book has no mention of this. In her free time, what little she gets, she reads what the Behavior Analysis Unit produces. They're smaller books, not really meant to be enjoyed but more a training tool and she finds them interesting but still lacking something. She wonders if the bureau would benefit from criminals being liaisons. Not so much the violent ones or the serial killers since they are often outside the spectrum. But the ones who turned for some reason and aren't any sort of textbook definition.

She gets to the part where they have a case study and have an agent who went off the books while catching the criminal versus the one who followed protocol and procedures. And it seemed like the book touted the agent who conformed to the protocols despite not catching the criminal. Even though the agent who was thinking outside the book got the criminal in the end, he was placed on a suspension until review. It seemed as if conforming to the policies and procedures was more important than the catching the criminal. She wonders if this is the kind of training that happens in phase two.

"Do you think its better to conform?" She asks quietly. "Did you conform to the protocols and not question them when you were Intelligence?"

He slides his finger into the page of her dissertation and looks at her. His jaw moves back and forth as he thinks and finally he nods.

"I learned that hard way not to question authority," he told her. "If you ask too many questions..."

She leans towards him unconsciously, waiting for him to finish.

"The powers that be like drones," is all he says.

"Did something happen?" She wonders.

He briefly smiles. She's too good. She'll conform but she'll question in silence. She'll do better than him. He couldn't keep his questions off the record. He thinks that maybe she can and will be able to work under the radar. She's brilliant and has a different way of thinking but the different thinking won't get her family killed. She'll find a way to bend the rules without breaking them. She'll break once or twice but she's strong enough to pick up the pieces.

"That's classified," he teases.

He watches her frown slightly as she looks at him. She'll drop it but that won't stop her curiosity. He opens the bound volume in his lap again and effectively ends their question and answer session.

* * *

He noticed she put off sleep for a while. She read a vast amount of her textbook despite the bags under her eyes and the droop of her head and the messy writing as the hours wore on. He finally put an end to it when she closed her eyes for a brief moment, startled, and then looked to see if he noticed. He pretended he didn't. Instead, he closed his finished reading material and cleared his throat.

"You look tired," he notes when she looks up.

"I could say the same about you," she counters.

"Touché," he nods.

He hasn't been sleeping, just like her. But his reasons vary. Her sleep has been disrupted by Sam's diagnosis. His has been meeting her and trying to keep his distance but quickly realizing the futile notion of ever staying away. He can't anymore. Not after what happened tonight. He's been gone from her life for a long time. He's kept in the shadows because he didn't feel safe bringing her into the world that started this path they're both on today. Although, he knows she's still in the dark. Sam's kept his promise and kept her safe and relatively naïve about her past. He hates that they've had to do that but if she finds out, there will be far more lasting consequences that he hasn't prepared for.

He stands and moves to place her dissertation back on the shelf.

She asks quietly if he will stay the night as he has her back to her. Her voice is quiet and unsure and he hates that she seems willing to ask but nervous of the consequences. She emphasizes that its just to sleep and gets flushed as he stares at her when he finally turns. He nods before he knows what he's doing and although not the best of options, he knows Dembe and Luli are somewhere in the neighborhood watching the house. They're safe for the time being from his adversary but not their individual demons and nightmares.

He lets her guide them down the hall as he places a hand at the small of her back.

She opens her bedroom door and he finds it vastly different from the last time he was here. Instead of the little table in the corner of the room where he and Sam were once a part of a tea party with her stuffed bunny, there is a bookcase filled to the brim and overflowing with books. They vary from literary to textbooks and he can't help but wonder if they have any similarity to their collection. Gone was the twin bed of a little girl and in its place, an extra-large full size bed sits in the corner. The pink has turned to green and he snaps out of his perusal of the room as she tells him that she's going to get dressed and ready for bed. He only half pays attention as she leans down into the duffle bag and pulls out pajamas.

He waits for her return and will step out of his suit and strip down to his underclothes in the bathroom. He finds it amusing when he goes into the bathroom and finds an extra toothbrush and it has a red stripe down the back. And when he returns, she's already turned down the bed, laying on one side with an extra blanket at the foot of the bed. He climbs onto the bed and he can feel her watching him as he adjusts the blanket around himself.

The silence isn't like their usual when they're at the hospital; instead its a little awkward. They face each other but they might as well be in separate beds with how far apart they lay.

"Lizzie," he whispers.

Her eyes meet his as she adjust her head on the pillow to look at his face rather than stare at the middle of his t-shirt covered chest. Her blue eyes are tired but there's a spark within them. She has dark circles under her eyes that her minimal makeup hid until now and he feels a pang shoot through him. He's usually observant of these things but he's been in and out of his own mind and worried about both her and Sam and he's forgotten to look  _at_  her.

"Come here," he tells her quietly.

She's fiercely independent. And he doesn't fault her for that. But everyone needs someone sometimes and he's happy to play the role tonight. He'd be happy to play it forever but he can sense the fallout when she finds out who he is. So, he's content and finds himself waiting to play it at a distance when she leaves. He's had a taste of the light Elizabeth Milhoan can bring to his life. But that's all he'll get: a taste. Because, like the saying goes, that's all we're given in life… a taste. There is no more. Isn't that enough?

She sighs as his arm wraps around her middle. Her arms don't wrap around him. Instead, they look for purchase in his t-shirt as she folds her arms into the space between their bodies. The tension seems to slip from both of them and her head tucks itself into the space between his shoulder and his chin. Their bare legs touch and he can't help but give a small chuckle as she whispers an apology. She hardly knew this morning she should have shaved her legs in the shower. After all, she wasn't really expecting to have anyone else in her bed, and least of all Sam's friend. But he's more than just a comfort and she finds some sort of solace in his arms that she can't otherwise get alone. Her breathing shudders as he begins to run his fingers down her t-shirt covered spine.

"Everything is going to be okay," he says as he dips his chin to settle on her head. He presses a kiss to her hair and a few tears escape her and trail down and a few end up on his shirt. "You're going to be fine."

It takes a while, he can hear the wheels turning in her head, but she eventually falls asleep as he continues to trace his fingers up and down her spine. He only knows she sleeps when her breathing becomes deeper and more even against the crook of his neck.

He spends the night awake, like most nights. However, he isn't plagued by nightmares tonight. Instead his mind won't shut off. Elizabeth Milhoan runs through his mind as he memorizes her touch, the way she smells and tastes; the way she looks at him as if he knows she knows his secrets but will keep them from anyone and everyone. Perhaps she does have an inkling of who he really is or perhaps not. Her affection for him seems genuine and he can't detect a hint of the FBI using her to lure him out despite her being a trainee agent. Of course, she did surface a few times but a reassuring whisper in her ear and a gentle stroke of his hand on her arm or her back was all that was needed.

* * *

The curtains in her room aren't really made for blocking out the sun. By the time she went to university, her bedroom had changed in theme but the gauzy curtains from when she was little stayed the same. Her bed had gotten bigger and her toys were given to the few charity houses that supported various women's and children's causes. She wasn't really that heavy of a sleeper and typically faced the other direction so the sun would often make its way through the curtains and warm her back as she huddled in the blankets. However, with her bedmate, she was facing the window and the sun began to loom over the horizon and therefore her face. Its early but not overly so. Or, at least she thinks its not too early. The sun was half up, she thinks as she judges by the light hitting her. And she can see the clock reads a quarter to seven. Perhaps its early for some but having to get up for PT in the mornings at four am at the Academy was early. This was essentially a day off.

She wakes feeling more refreshed then she has the other five days here. She wakes before him which she can assume is only fair considering the bags under his own eyes suggest he hadn't been sleeping much either. They hadn't moved. Or, at least she doesn't think they did. Her fingers are cramped from holding onto his t-shirt all night and she lets them loose from their grip and flexes, listens to them as her joints quietly pop. Her head moves on his pillow and she sighs quietly. Her eyes close as her nose touches his warm skin both from their own body heat as well as the morning sun warming him as she tucks her head back underneath his chin.

He must have slept, he thinks as he slowly blinks. It doesn't happen often but its a heavy sleep for a few hours. The last thing he remembered was the darkness of the room. Now its light or almost light outside and he sighs contentedly. And he actually feels a little refreshed as he wakes and finds her still against him but awake. With a deep breath in and letting it out slowly, he closes his eyes once more. Not necessarily to sleep but to simply relish the contentment he feels; the warmth of her against him; the light he feels in his ocean of darkness.

Unfortunately, his quiet is interrupted by her constant thinking this early.

"I can hear you thinking," he whispers.

She removes her head from her little space between him and looks up and nods her chin towards him. She makes a move to escape his hold as he's awake now, but he tightens his arm briefly and then loosens it. Its a gesture. She thinks its a nod of some sort to her that its all right if she stays just a little longer. So, she does. She settles back against him and she finds her mind quiets. Her creeping anxiety seems to slowly disappear. And she thinks she'll stay like this only for another minute... she swears.

Her fingers tap on his sternum and she feels his chin dip to rest on the top of her head. His fingers move up her spine and she lets out a breath against him as they revel in the silence.

"Sam's strong," she whispers in the quiet.

She can feel the swallow he takes. Feels the rhythm of his fingers change briefly.

"He's going to be fine, Lizzie," he tells her. He's not sure if that's what she wants to hear but he'll say it anyway. Because she needs to hear it as much as he does.

"Thank you," she whispers eventually.

His fingers have made a path from her spine to fleeting touch her skin with his calloused fingertips along her bare arm that sticks out from the nest of blankets and sheets they find themselves in. He hums in response as they wait for the day to break and begin.

"For staying... For telling me what I need to hear," she finishes.

His fingers straying in his pattern against her skin was the only thing that told her he had been affected by her words. How or why, she didn't know. Only that he was.

* * *

They're in his room at the Magnolia Hotel in the downtown district just a few miles away from the hospital. She marveled at the size of the suite when he first guided her inside with a hand at the small of her back. Whenever she and Sam went on vacations, the places were nice but not as nice as this one. She thinks this might rival the square footage of the house she grew up in and wasn't surprised she didn't know hotel rooms like this existed in Omaha.

After a shower and a change of clothes for her back at the house, she notes that he's still wearing the same suit. She colors slightly and he smiles briefly dismissing her apology before she starts it. He suggests going to his hotel before they meet with Sam again. And suddenly she remembers that he may have a solution; he may be their saving grace. And for the millionth time, she wonders what Raymond and Sam's relationship is or was to get this favor.

He showers and changes as she explores the room. She notices the bouquet of flowers on one of the tables and fingers the cherry blossoms. She wonders where the hotel found blooming ones. She leans over the flowers and cups a bloom, smelling the unique scent. It brings her back to her childhood and Sam and days in the park. She wonders if DC's blooms have blossomed yet. She plucks her cupped, small blossom and holds it in her hands. Before she can do or think of anything more, there's a knock on the door and room service is muffled. Her stomach grumbles and she puts the bloom in her coat pocket near the door as she opens to let the man wheel the cart through.

She eats room service on the 's a dining room table in the dining room but that was too far away. She didn't even know why this thought occurred to her. When had she ever depended on anyone since her childhood, she thinks. She can hear the running of the water where she is on the couch. She eats the eggs florentine with gusto and savors her homefries with extra syrup on the side. She eyes his plate still covered by the room service dish but she can smell his own homefries and wonders what he got for breakfast. When he's finished dressing—impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit yet again, the suit jacket folded on his arm—she stares. He's wearing glasses and he smiles briefly as she furrows her brows a little.

"I don't recommend sleeping in contacts," he jests.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers. Because she had no idea he wore them. She should have known. She looked him in the eyes long enough she should have seen the contacts. But he waved her off.

"Lizzie, if I cared, I would have let you know," he tells her. "It was time to change them anyway."

She nodded and watched as he lifted the cover to reveal his breakfast. She laughs at his eggs benedict. He only gives her a small, half-smile in return. She's not watching him eat as much as she is simply taking him in. The glasses change him. He's more vulnerable but also more sophisticated and she doesn't know why she suddenly wants him to constantly wear the jet black frames all the time.

"What?" He asks without looking over at her.

"Do you wear them often?" She wonders.

"My glasses?" He asks. She nods. "When I'm feeling particularly lazy or don't have anything planned."

She tilts her head and smiles to herself.

"You look nice," she says quietly. "They look nice."

He turns to look at her and notes the sincerity.

"Thank you," he notes.

He leans in close to her and she can't help but steal more home fries from his plate. He chuckles as she dips her fingers in the syrup and doesn't look bashful or sorry for doing so. Its his fault really. He wonders briefly if he'll ever get to make her his own recipe.

A knock on the door sounds as he finishes his plate and he tells her its his doctor friend. She wipes the nonexistent syrup from her lips and stands nervously.

A brief exchange of names and handshakes are given and he has them all take a seat. She watches as he eyes his leftover food but ignores it in favor of looking to her and then to the doctor.

The doctor brings markups of the machine she uses. Scans of before and afters of patients that allowed her to use them as examples to show her (and Sam). The doctor sits on a single chair and she and Red sit on the couch again. His arm is up on the back of the couch and he sits close to her while still giving her space. His fingers brush the shoulder closest to him as she is handed the files from the doctor.

He watches her as she studies the results. She pours over them and essentially ignores him and the doctor.

"How does if work?" She asks.

"It's primarily used for brain tumors," the doctor notes as she looks between Liz and Red. "With Sam's permission, I looked over his medical files and his scans on my flight here."

Liz nods and wonders if he really did okay it. He's been in and out too much and she thinks maybe the man next to her had something to do with it but she's grateful either way.

"These are all X-rays and scans of the brain," Liz points out.

"My team and I are testing the gamma knife on patients with lung and liver cancer."

"Stage two?" She asks.

"All four stages," the doctor nods. "Of course, we're looking for those patients with one and two because they have a greater chance of success. But we can't bias and doctor the results with only two stages."

Liz looks to Red but he dips his chin. He can only provide her and Sam with opinions. He has no right to dictate family concerns.

"The gamma knife is direct. More so than other treatments, especially chemotherapy," the doctor tells her.

Liz looks back at her.

"How does it work?" She asks. "With it being in his lungs."

"He will be fitted for a special body cradle and a special vest to ensure he's in the same position each treatment. The data generated with the vest allows the CyberKnife robot to precisely follow the tumor's motion as it delivers each beam of radiation, ensuring safe and accurate radiation delivery. A CT scan is performed; MRI or PET scan if we can't draw a picture with a simple CT. It's a very pain-free experience. He can breathe during the treatment and there's very minimal side effects because the gamma knife is so direct with the radiation."

"It sounds too good to be true," Liz says as she looks at Red rather than the doctor.

"I am worried about his health," the doctor warns as Liz finally turns to face her. "It might just be the treatment he's undergoing right now. We'll have to wait and see how he recovers before I'd start treatment."

The room is shrouded in silence for a moment.

"Can you give us the room?" Red quietly asks as he watches Liz begin to worry her scar.

The doctor nods and gets up. The hotel room door closes and Red's arm comes down from the back of the couch. He takes her hand in his, stopping the pattern she draws on her skin.

She looks up at him and perhaps for the first time this week, he finally sees the hope in her eyes. She finally believes her father can beat it; that her world is finally not crashing down in front of her.

* * *

He took the long way to the hospital. He watched the traffic in front of him for most of the time but he also looked at the occasional stop out of the corner of his eye to the passenger seat. It wasn't that she was despondent it was more pensive than anything else.

"He's going to want me to go home," she tells him. "If he okays this, he's going to tell me to go back to training."

She looks to him as he drives.

"Do you trust the doctor?" She asks.

"Absolutely," he nods and gives her a brief look.

"Do you think insurance will cover this and the transfer?" She wonders aloud.

"I can have my lawyers look into your coverage... Sam's coverage," he tells her.

"Really?" She wonders.

"Of course, Lizzie," he reassures her. Of course, he doesn't tell her that it will be him looking it over and covering any and all costs. Its the least he can do for the man whose life he turned upside down one night.

She places her hand briefly on the forearm that rests on the middle console as he drives as a gesture of thanks because words don't really seem to be enough when it comes to what he does for her and for Sam. His suit jacket is soft under her touch and she squeezes briefly before letting go and worrying her scar slightly as she prepares to face her father.

* * *

Sam okays it after a conversation between father and daughter. Red and the two doctors linger in the hallway. His original doctor eyes Red and Red only grins as he essentially ignores the man and speaks with his friend more about the procedure and the trial results so far. And only when Liz sticks her head out and invites them into the room do they come in. Sam okays the treatment only after Liz promises she will return to Quantico tonight. She hesitates for a brief moment. Her eyes stray to Red and he nods slightly. She turns back to her father and they shake on the promise.

His new doctor goes to speak further with the attending as she arranges the transfer. Luli is there with her as she settles this hospital bill.

Liz escapes to pack and promises to be back before she leaves. Red asks if she'd like a ride, rather than calling Aunt June and having her drive all the way to the airport to pick up Sam's car later. She okays it. He tells her that she can start to pack and he wants to speak with Sam. She nods and with a kiss to her father's cheek and a nod to Red, she leaves the room.

Both men watch her leave.

"Red," Sam gets out between coughs.

The two share a look and Red looks away first.

"Lizzie," Sam trails off. "Please…"

Red swallows and his lower lips purses in contemplation of how to proceed.

"I…" Red starts and pauses. "I can only hope to love her and protect her as you have."

Sam laughs a bit. The laugh turns to a cough. Red's cheek twitches as he imagines the pain Sam is going through.

"We both know," Sam pauses as he takes a deep breath in. "We both know that your love isn't paternal."

Red opens his mouth slightly. Runs his tongue over his lips and he doesn't attempt to dissuade Sam. A father knows these things.

"Don't let them use her against you," Sam points out carefully.

"I won't let that happen," he notes. He can't. Because if he loses her, he loses his second chance. And he's not going to let that slip through his fingers.

He'll always be there with her, standing in the shadows to keep her safe. Laughing with her in the light. Watching through her eyes all those who get close. He'll always be there.

"She will be fine," Red whispers as he watches Sam watch where Liz had walked out moments ago.

Sam still doesn't look convinced.

"You need to tell her everything…" he notes.

Red shakes his head.

"Something," Sam relents. "Something has changed. I can see it."

"You have ten weeks to get better, Sam," Red says and Sam thinks he's going to dismiss his point. But Raymond Reddington never backed away from a challenge.

"What happened?" Sam asks.

Red looks at Sam. Stares and wonders how he knows when he doesn't know himself.

"I don't know," Red whispers. Red scratches his forehead and sighs. "I never..."

"She smiled," Sam notes. "She hasn't smiled like that in a long time."

Red swallows hard.

"Her graduation from the first phase," Red says quietly as he answers Sam's first point. "They still flash the top ten at the end of the ceremony, right?"

"I think so," Sam nods.

Red's jaw twitches and he nods once.

"Then I have ten weeks."

Red leans down and presses his lips to Sam's forehead. He closes his eyes and wills the man to get better; to fight with everything he had because he needs him to live. He's not ready to protect Elizabeth alone. Not yet.

* * *

They're at the curb of the airport in the departure zone. She returned briefly to the hospital to say goodbye to Sam, alone, and then she was off with Red driving.

"Sam said to be careful of you," she told him bluntly as she hesitates to get out of the car.

"You should listen to him," he notes quietly.

"Why?" She asks.

His jaw twitches and his fingers twitch at his side.

"I'm not a good man," he says as he tilts his head and a sad smile appears on his face.

"Good is so subjective," she notes.

He gives her a half smile and opens the door, moving to the trunk to get her duffle bag. She steps out and waits on the sidewalk with her messenger bag already on one shoulder.

He steps close but not too close and hands her the bag.

She steps closer and he refuses to step away even though his entire being wants him to.

She bites her lip and stares at his face. Blue eyes meet green and he can see the wisdom in her still. The wisdom beyond her years. The laser-like eyes that dialed into him all those years ago are still apparent today.

"Lizzie," he whispers.

"I just…" she trails off. "What you've done this week; thank you."

He swallows hard and nods once.

"I'll stay with him until he's transferred," he tells her. "I'll get him settled in his new room and make him call you with an update."

"Don't you have to work?" She asks.

"My work hours are very flexible," he notes.

She hikes the duffle bag over her shoulder and she can feel him staring at her.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"Of course, Lizzie," he replies.

He swallows once and when she doesn't look back up at him, he nods at her form and turns to retreat to the car.

"Wait," she reaches for his hand as he leaves to get back into the car. She grabs at the cuff of his jacket and he stops as her fingers brush against his skin.

Half of her was fine with letting him leave without another word. And the other part of her needed reassurances, even false ones, that she'd see him again.

"Is this it?" She asks. "Is this where you disappear from my life and I'm left wondering who the hell you really are for the rest of my life?"

He doesn't answer.

The half smile he gives her that doesn't quite reach his eye tells her she's hit a nerve.

"Will I ever see you again?" She asks.

"Of course, Lizzie," he nods. "I just have a little business to take care of first."

She swallows her fear and brandishes her courage. She steps up closer and her shoes touch his own as she leans in. She swears she means to kiss his cheek but he turns slightly and shifts down and she catches the corner of his lips. And knowing what happened not even a mere 24 hours ago, this has the potential to go downhill fast. He turns into her and grabs at her hip as his lips find hers properly. Her fingers dig into the hair at the nape of his neck not hidden by the fedora he wears and she feels the resentment and half a goodbye in the way his kiss is too fierce and desperate. She separates first. Her fingers linger one second too long at the nape of his neck and he shudders as they fall down his form and back to her side. She brushes his side and he slowly opens his eyes to find hers searching his face.

"This isn't goodbye," she notes.

"Just for now," he tells her.

She takes a few steps backwards but soon faces the departure gates rather than him.

* * *

He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes briefly. As he remembers her brush against his pocket, he digs his hand in, hoping she didn't take anything. He can't remember what he had in his pocket.

He swallows hard at the little cherry blossom. Half the bloom is squished beyond all hope. He chuckles and cups his hand to try and smell the fragrant little bloom. Most of the scent is gone but he can still imagine it. She must have snagged it from the decorative bouquet in his hotel room since the cherry blossoms elsewhere weren't in bloom yet.

He lifts his head and watches her leave in the rearview mirror. She's not afraid of him despite the repeated lines from Sam and his attempts to distance himself.

"If anyone can give me a second chance," he whispers to her retreating form. "Its you."


	6. Chapter 6

They had only spoken once in the ten weeks. His voice was low and gruff through the seemingly constant static. She didn't know if it was from him or her but when he was quiet on the line, she could almost hear the sounds of the city where he was. He began with news about Sam. The transfer was successful and Sam had been successfully fitted for his vest for the gamma ray treatment that was scheduled for later this week. He would stay for the first night but he had business to take care of and couldn't stay any longer. She had assured him that she was grateful he would stay that long with Sam. When he had told her it was a thing friends did for friends, she imagined the little tic in his cheek as he spoke the words; his eyes softening as he spoke the truth. She could hear it in his voice and she swallowed hard. After the formalities, it was quiet for a moment. There was a shuffling of papers and a muted thank you on his end and it suggested that he was doing something in addition to talking with her. She asked if he was busy and he could always call her back at another time if he wanted. But a moment later, he asked how she was; how her classes were going; if she was spending any extra time in the training facilities working on her defensive techniques or her target practice. He had all the time in the world for her, or so it seemed. Liz smiled as he remembered that she didn't do so well on the defensive training or the firing range. She barely passed with the minimum qualifications during her last practice and she swears her body hurts more than it should after being beaten down by a number of obstacles. She went on and on about her days and she told him a few interesting things she had learned in one of her behavioral analysis classes and asked him things in return. She could almost see the little upturn of his lips as she asked questions she knew she wasn't going to get answers to but asked them anyway. His occasional chuckle lingered in the stillness.

When she quietly asked what he was doing three weeks from now, he got quiet. He avoided the question and told her he may still be away on business. She didn't know why she felt a little deflated at the answer. She didn't even know why she had almost asked him if he would come.

She could hear the apology in his tone as he told her goodbye. She tried not to let disappointment seep into her own. Long after the phone call had been disconnected, she stared at her phone and lamented the fact he used a restricted number.

* * *

Two days later found her with time to kill between her two classes of the day. She had talked with Sam and found him to be more upbeat then he had been when they had seen each other last. He could make it through the conversation without having to pause and cough. She had told him that Raymond had called the other day and told her that he'd updated her. Sam was quiet, taking the information in and only mumbled something she couldn't quite catch. She thinks he did it on purpose.

It was after that, when she knew he was finally going to beat this thing, did she motivate herself to go to the gym and try to work on her defensive maneuvers. She had one sparring partner she knew she could count on. There were very few who took her seriously because she excelled in the academic stuff but not so much the physical. It wasn't her fault. She never really needed to use violence or her body as a means to get what she wanted. Instead, she used her mind and the small skill set that Sam armed her with. But it was the potential of being on a task force and running into a suspect unawares that might blindside her and get her killed or injured that motivated her to find someone to teach her how to pass with more than just the minimum scores. Her sparring partner commended on her skills which were bettering with each practice. He had even told her that she had a chance to get above minimum. After the high of endorphins and the chance of actually passing with a bit of muster, her mind flitted back to Raymond.

It wasn't as if she missed him. She really had no chance to miss him since she doesn't particularly know him all that well. But she does. Kind of. Sort of. In that way you wonder how someone is doing after you go your separate ways. She thinks he'd give her that little upturn of a smile in the corner of his lips if she told him of her progress. Perhaps even tell her something kind and use the nickname she's grown to miss when she hasn't heard it from his lips. She bites her lower lip in an effort to squash the smile that threatens to appear on her lips at this thought.

She notices people coming out of the mail room as she walks from the gym to the housing units and decides perhaps she should check it on the off chance something about their ceremony is in the box. Unlike the rest of her group, she doesn't really have family to send her well wishes and care packages. She doesn't mind. She knows how much this means to Sam that she's taking initiative and doing something good. Opening her box, she does find announcements and the tickets she's requested for Sam. She asked for one but she gets four and maybe she'll just send them all over anyway.

It's when she's walking back and sorting through her small pile does she notice that she received a postcard from Vienna. Frowning with mild apprehension, it disappears when she flips it over and the card is marked with the familiar nickname and a single red  _R_. The other mail is discarded on her bed without a second thought when she gets to her room. She holds the city landscape to her breast as she looks around for her roommate and lets out a sigh of relief when she finds herself alone.

She roots under her boxes in her closet, and underneath the papers and files she kept of her schoolwork and pulls out a small wooden box. Lifting it up and out of the cardboard box of stuff, she pulls her legs underneath her and lifts the lid of the carved box. She picks up the postcard from the floor beside her and traces the red ink and bites the inside of her cheek as she gets this overwhelming feeling of something. It's a token. She doesn't know what for. But she finds it reassuring somehow. She longs to speak to him even though it's only been a week since their last phone call and it had been seven weeks prior to that. She sandwiches the postcard between her high school graduation card from Sam and the picture of her and her father from his birthday party one year when she was still little. There's not much in the box. But it's sentimental things. And the postcard belongs there.

* * *

She holds her graduation certificate in her hands as she sits with her 107 other classmates. She's in a sea of black blazers and perfectly coifed and cropped hair. After all, they had to get their photos taken with their shiny new achievement. Her certificate is balanced on her knees as she listens to other names being called. She tugs at her cuff that peeks out from her blazer sleeve. She thinks its a good idea she chose a long sleeved shirt. She's tempted to touch her scar as she sits through this. Her scar has been a nervous tic since she was in school. The unconscious movement from roughened scar tissue to soft skin would always help control her heightened nerves. But as of late, it just reminds her of Raymond. He had taken her hand and brushed against it, knowing or unknowingly, she still wasn't sure. It was always brief in contact and she never missed as he touched the burn that she still couldn't bring herself to think about or talk about with anyone. But he had halted her frayed nerves a few times and she had tried doing the same in various, conscious ways.

The speeches last forever and she thinks she's supposed to pay attention and know who these people are but she can't find it in herself to care. Instead, she occasionally catches the eye of a man standing on the stage in the dimmed shadows as the director of the FBI begins to congratulate them on all their hard work and how important they are and the usual speech she's heard a thousand times over as they neared the end of classes and training. She can't remember who the man is but knows that he was introduced at some point... she thinks it's another director of another letter agency. He looks like one that deals in the trading of secrets, where information is currency and the more secretive, the more it's worth to him. He only scans the crowd a few times but she seems to catch his eye each pass. His thin features don't give anything away as she studies him. She wasn't sure if he was looking at her purely in interest or knows something about her future she has yet to encounter or if he's simply as bored as her. She frowns as she hears the ceremony concluding and he catches her eye once more. He's almost watching her for a reaction. But she looks away a moment later and prepares for whatever thing is happening next as a screen is revealed.

She thinks if she was blindsided, a lead weight would have lined her stomach or sent her world crashing into the ground. But she wasn't blindsided. Not really. She had too many questions about him. She noticed the fedora in the grainy black and white photo. Not many people could really pull off a fedora but he did. Or perhaps she was bias now. She wasn't too sure at the moment. His pictures were angled and his hair was scraggly and unkempt under the hat. She wonders why the photos are always in black and white when printed out or shared in front of a large audience. The slide flashes to number three before she could analyze the picture further or even catch the name of number four. But she recognizes him. Her hearing had gone out by this point. Its drowned out by the sound of her own heartbeat and her ears ringing in that way Sam always told her that means someone's talking about you. Her temperature rises in embarrassment, frustration, and a thousand other emotions and she hopes her natural instinct of blushing isn't noticeable. Not that she thinks people are looking at her. They're too focused on the screen. They're putting a price on the heads of these men. And when she feels a prickle of awareness again, she feels eyes on her. She scanned for the man again but he was gone and disappeared into the shadows.

They are lingering in the entrance to the headquarters of the administration building. Most graduates and their families are gathered in circles and taking pictures with one another. All in all, they don't look suspicious to the agents that linger just on the outside of the chaos. But they're the only ones that seem to linger near the security post where the ten most wanted pictures are prominently displayed for all to see. She stares at the photo of number four as she crosses her arms at her chest. She's angled away from Sam unconsciously. Her anger festers and is showcased ever so subtly despite her conscious want to make it appear they are the happy new graduate and proud father.

"Did you know this entire time?" She asks.

"Not that he was four," Sam said cautiously.

If it was supposed to help, it didn't. The subtle evasion didn't fool her when she was little and it's certainly not now as evidence stares her in the face at the life Sam could have led. She wonders why his 'old friend' made the list and Sam was a free man. Was she the one who forged Sam's life onto a different path or did something else happen? She suddenly needs to know everything Sam knows.

She looked around surreptitiously and noted no one seemed to be in ear shot.

"What happened?" She wondered quietly.

Sam shook his head and she only saw the brief movement out of the corner of her eyes.

"That's his story to tell, not mine," Sam told her. He coughed and cleared his throat.

She turned towards him, worried about the wet sound but quickly realized it was simply to get her to look at him. Her gaze went from worried back to confused the moment she figured out the reason for his cough.

"You're stubborn, Lizzie. If I had forbid you to speak to him when he was there, you would have gone against my wishes. I warned you to be careful. I warned him he's in too deep."

Liz bit the inside of her lip. He did warn her. She just didn't listen. And he was damn cryptic. It was a family trait, it seemed. And she feels she's already in too deep as well. She doesn't know what Sam knows about Omaha but from the look he's giving her, she doesn't need to speak of it.

Sam touches her shoulders and they slump. He knows. She swallows the lump in her throat. She wants to speak but can't find the words.

She longs to reach out and touch the poster, take it from its post and rip it into tiny pieces or burn it so his face vanishes into thin air in a whirl of flames but knew that would draw unwanted attention. So she memorizes the facts and compares it with the brief talks they had alone in the gardens. It was a shoddy profile at best but knew that more was missing than she had in front of her. Sam's face confirmed it. The way he looked at her like he's wanted to protect her from this. The way he gets when she had a bad day and only wanted alone time to process her frustration. She thinks the man on the poster isn't the man she knows... And she needs to talk to him.

"How do you get in touch with him?" She asks. "He called me once but it was a restricted number."

Sam takes her elbow and they move at a sedate pace to appear to be taking in the reality of the facility as well as make use of Sam's still frail and healing body. It's only when they're outside, out of earshot, does he begin to speak.

"I haven't called him in years."

"How…" Liz trailed off.

"He knew about the cancer like he knows things about you. He keeps tabs. When he's ready, he'll come."

Sam thinks of it as simple. She wants to laugh or cry or hit Sam and this criminal mastermind. It's far from simple. His network has to be vast, untouchable, reliable. And she suddenly wonders if it was all a ploy.

Liz wanted her mind to profile him as a stalker. Chalk it up to a middle aged man being obsessed with a young woman. But it was far more complicated. Because he only knew the basics. He knows how she liked her coffee and her education but that was as far as he really got. He didn't know that she couldn't cook until he taught her that night. He almost craved the way her mind saw things as they spoke. He knew her in a round about way and only when she let him in did he find out more about her. A stalker would have known. Raymond Reddington was genuinely interested in her for some unknown reason.

"Lizzie," Sam said. She detected a hint of worry as she came back to herself as he called her name again. She can only look at him. There's a lump in her throat that won't leave and she feels like she's being watched again. This time, it's less of an intense stare and more of an interested one. She reassures Sam with a nod that she's at least relatively okay for the moment.

She looks back into the crowd of people and waits for the feeling of being watched dissipate. It doesn't. Instead, she meets the eye of a woman as she scans the crowd. She blends in with the rest of the families but it's the smile and nod Liz gets after making eye contact with the woman that makes Liz wonder if he's here or keeping tabs on her. When she turns back to Sam to ask him if she knows the pretty Asian woman who smiled at her, she's gone.

"I…" she trails off when Sam looks at her curiously. She doesn't know what she wants to say. She's too all over the map in regards to her feelings and thoughts to make something coherent.

"Whatever you know about him or think you know from this, it's only the surface," Sam says as he tugs at her arm and propels them to the parking lot. They need to leave. She can take it out on him at his hotel but not here. Not here where there are too many eyes and ears.

* * *

She doesn't know what to think of the city yet. She's in Brooklyn, sandwiched between college kids from NYU who can't afford the prices in Manhattan and the mid-to-do business people who have the potential to move to Central Park West but are stuck here because of the inflated prices of a cardboard box and the fact you have to know somebody who knows somebody in order to even try and get in on a bid. There are tenants of singles and small families up and down the block and she thinks having an acquaintance from the city from her time at the academy actually helped. She spent the first night unpacking the u-haul she had rented from Quantico to New York City when Sam was still in town and able to help her box the little, light things from her room at the academy. She half expected for her stuff to get taken because of the tales she's heard about the city but her stuff is fine and she's found her neighbors are actually nice.

She has until next Monday until she officially starts so exploring the city is a good idea. She asks neighbors what the best route is to take for work. When they ask where she works, she side steps and mumbles something about the general Civic Center area. They give her a second glance but don't ask her to elaborate. The thing she likes about the city is the neighbors are friendly but not overly so. They mind their own business and generally keep to themselves. It's a nice change from Omaha and the dorms at Quantico. They ramble off metro numbers and stops she should avoid during certain hours of the day and she thanks them kindly. They wave her away with a nod of the head or a half attempted gesture that resembles a wave. The small talk eventually falls short because she's awkward around people—its always just been her and Sam and he's never forced her to talk to anyone she didn't know and she thinks people find her strange between her quiet demeanor and her choice in careers. There was only one person who had told her never to apologize for who she is. And whenever she thinks about that day, that week, she thinks that was the start of a new leaf despite how it turned out in the end.

Coming back from a day of exploring the metro and the headquarters of the New York field office, she was tired. Her bag was heavy on her slumped shoulders and it was only her motivation to dig through the file she had been handed after getting her official credentials and metro pass from work that keeps her feet from dragging as she walks up the steps to her front door.

Her brownstone is quiet and the lights are off, except for the one in her kitchen. She remembers leaving the light off when she left. It was mid-afternoon when she had finally woken up, showered, and dressed for a day of exploring the city in the heat of the summer while looking mostly professional. She would draw her weapon if she had one on her but she thinks she knows who it is based on the way Sam made a mention of him in their conversation today. When she had asked why he brought him up, Sam's only remark was that he said he had told him he had ten weeks to tell her. That limit had passed a week ago. Today, oddly enough, was the one day she had actually thought of him consciously. She had taken the wrong stop back to her brownstone and ended up a few blocks away in the shopping district of her little neighborhood, Cobble Hill, in Brooklyn. The canvas of the cherry blossom branch in the window of a fancy art studio had made her stop in her tracks and wonder what he was doing and why he hadn't contacted her in some form, especially since he probably knows she knows about him. She stared for a long time at the painting, memorizing it and wondering what this all meant. Why today of all days she had to think of him and notice this painting. Although she was well enough, she wasn't well-off and knew just by the brush strokes and the detailed paintings next to the one she looked at, it would be a pretty penny. So she memorizes the detail, and perhaps one day she'll find something similar at Target in her price range.

She drops her bag at the entry way and makes sure the file is secure and the door is locked before she faces her intruder. As she walks towards the source of light, her fingers twitch against her thigh. They open and close and she breathes in and out in a steady rhythm as she inches closer. She finally reaches the kitchen and simply stares, unable to form any words.

"Hello, Lizzie," he says suddenly.

She freezes at the doorway because she's not sure if this is a figment of her imagination or if he's really standing in her kitchen. She hasn't ever imagined their reunion. After the revelation at her graduation ceremony, she thought their goodbye at the airport in Omaha really was their last goodbye despite his protests of it being just for now. If she had imagined it, she thinks this scenario would be far down on her list of possibilities.

"How is Sam?" he asks as she steps into the kitchen.

He doesn't look at her as she leans against the entryway of the kitchen wall. Her hands settle behind her back and she leans back against them as she studies him. It's dangerous but she knows he won't harm her. She thinks if he wanted her harmed or killed, she'd already be done for. Rather, he busies himself with something else entirely. He looks much too relaxed. His suit jacket is already off, along with his fedora, and he's unpacking a box labeled  _kitchen-glasses_.

"I should be arresting you," she notes.

He says nothing but finally turns. A bottle is sitting on the counter next to the box and two wine glasses are in his hands. She wants to protest and tell him no as he pours two measures but nothing comes. Its as if she's frozen in time and the only one that can move is him. She looks at him, really looks at him, and notices that he's tired. Underneath the nonchalance he exudes as he stands in her kitchen with a wine glass extended towards her, he is tired. He wears his glasses again and his tie is slightly off center with his neckline as well as his vest. She wants to know what has kept him up at night; wonders if its the secret that isn't quite secret anymore.

He swirls the decanted red wine around in his glass as if she's spoken of the weather rather than the possibility she could ruin his life. He's not antagonizing her or baiting her into doing so. She knows this. Its a mostly empty threat by her because she knows him just as he knows her. She won't expose him because she needs to understand. She needs to get to the truths. Needs answers to the questions she has.

"How is Sam, Lizzie?" He asks again. This time its gruffer, more serious. He wants to know.

"He's fine," she answers. Her arms come from behind her and she pushes off the wall as she makes her way to the opposite side of the small counter where he stands. "He's in another round of treatment this week."

"You spoke with him today?" He asks. But she thinks he's just confirming what he already knows. She's well aware he probably knows what day it is today.

She nods and takes the wine from his hands and watches his face as her fingers brush against his own. The spark is still there, she thinks. It's buried beneath the anger and questions but she can't deny the tingle that runs up her spine as she watches him cast his eyes at her form. His arm slowly moves to rest along the countertop. He's keeping both arms visible and she wonders if it's for her benefit.

"Were you really in Vienna?" She wonders.

"Yes," is all he relates.

She leans against the counter. The wood corner digs into her hip and she wonders why he chose this night of all nights to return to her life.

"What were you really doing there?" She asks.

"As I told you on the phone, business," he informs her. He looks down into his glass as if it holds all the secrets in the world. "I would have come last week but I was a little... delayed."

She wonders what that's supposed to mean but refrains from asking. Instead, she sips at the wine she bought a month ago as a graduation present to herself. She thought he'd be proud of her selection. From his hum as he drinks his, she thinks he is. It's dark and fruity and she doesn't want to like it but she does. It's hell on her empty stomach that chooses that moment to make itself known.

"When did you eat last?" He asks.

She glances at the clock behind her and notes the time.

"Six hours ago," she tells him.

Just as she finishes, the doorbell rings and she pauses and looks to him.

"Stay here," she notes as she puts her glass on the counter and moves back to the entry way. She's so focused on making sure she has an excuse for her neighbors to not come inside that she doesn't see him following close behind. When she swings open the door small enough to find a tall, handsome featured man in the outline of the doorway, she recognizes him. It's only hands that move her to the side and unlatch the door all the way that breaks through her fog of memories of seeing this man with Raymond in Omaha on their bench.

"Lizzie, this is Dembe," Red announces as he is passed a nondescript bag from the man she's seen once. "Dembe, this is Lizzie."

Dembe looks at her with a careful and suspicious eye, not offering his hand. She doesn't offer hers either. She doesn't fault him. No doubt he knows exactly who she is and what she does for a living... Or will do starting on Monday, she thinks. Though her job isn't particularly noteworthy, at least in the physical sense, the addition of she works for the Federal Bureau of Investigation turns heads and makes her feel like a capable and independent sort. Like maybe one day she'll be a special agent who can create leads through her analysis of files for task forces for finding men and women like the one who currently has his hand on her lower back.

"Thank you, Dembe," his voice says as he leans in towards her.

And with a final nod from the man she's seen twice now, he shuts the door, locks it, gathers the chain up to lock the second lock, and propels her back into the kitchen.

He sets the bag on the counter and digs out Tupperware and she can't help but flash back to Omaha. Her heart clenches and she doesn't know why it's so painful and fulfilling at the same time. She's not supposed to be comfortable around one of the most wanted criminals in the United States. Her heart isn't supposed to tug on its strings as she watches his movements, quick and precise, as he mechanically places each Tupperware piece down in a certain order on the counter before him.

"I never enter into someone's home without bringing an edible," he tells her without looking up.

She wonders how many homes he's entered without permission.

Her dishes are the one box that has been unpacked from the few littering the counter space and he finds two plates in the cabinets. She idly wonders if he went through her things before she got home. But then notices that he's looked for them in two cabinets and thinks he was simply guessing based on how he would arrange a kitchen. Obviously they think similarly since he found them in his second try. He opens the lids on all the tupperware and her stomach growls with hunger again.

He scoops the mashed potatoes into the center of the plate and adds the cooked carrots and onions just to the side of the potatoes. He pulls out another larger tupperware from the bottom of the bag, she thinks, and Liz can't help but watch with fascination as he opens the lid and looks upon a perfectly shredded pot roast. He hefted more than enough of the meat on the plate with the potatoes, carrots, and onions. He reaches into the bag yet again and its a small container this time, pourable. And he hands it over to her. She dollops the hot gravy onto her potatoes until it makes its own sort of flood on her plate, just enough to mix everything in and hands it back to him and watches as he does the same.

She grabs her wine and her plate and he does the same with his and takes the bag under his arm and she thinks silverware is in the very bottom as they reach the table and she realizes she's forgotten that little detail.

* * *

Their dinner is relatively quiet. She studies him as he studies her and the elephant in the room refuses to go away.

"It was a good choice," he notes as he looks around from his vantage point at the table. He leans back against the chair back and his hands fold together and he places them on his stomach. The chair briefly groans in protest and he smiles a little. She wonders if he knows these are Sam's old things from when she was a kid. "Some fantastic takeout places, easy commute into the city, quiet but also busy at the same time. The ideal place to settle down for a time."

"It was the only place I could really afford," she notes after she studies him and notes the sincerity in his voice.

He studies her movements. The way her hand grips the knife more like a defensive weapon than a utensil. He knows she knows exactly who he is. Or, whatever the FBI files are on him. Her cuts are uneven and choppy from watching him rather than watching the food she eats. The pot roast doesn't really need a knife but he gives her one anyway. He knows, or at least hopes, that she doesn't feel like wielding it for defensive purposes.

He catches her unaware more than once and it's all the opening his needs to escape but he doesn't. She excuses herself to the restroom and he nods his understanding. She needs a moment. She hasn't been given any time to process his abrupt arrival and thinks the excuse is just that... a way to clear her head and get some perspective. Well, as much as she can with a little window of opportunity he's provided her. Instead of leaving when given the chance, he goes back into the kitchen and lifts the wine bottle into his hand and observes the label. As he walks back to the table, he thinks she's gotten better taste since he'd last seen her. He briefly wonders if his brief lesson in the aisle of the supermarket stuck with her.

He pours the liquid as he stands as she slips back into her seat. He waits for her to take a sip and only when she takes a healthy gulp, probably not even tasting the multitude and complexity of the flavors, does he take a sip of their second round.

The air around them cracks with tension and he's tempted to break it first but knows that if he started they would simply run in circles whereas she no doubt has questions. But she waits. She clearly knows what she's doing, eating slowly and killing time and slowly driving him mad so he'll answer any question due to his lack of patience. If only she knew that this thing between them was like a game of chess and he is in it for the long play.

She finally sets the knife down on her mostly empty plate and plays with the stem of her wine glass.

"They've asked me to be on a task force," she tells him. She holds the wine up and forces her gaze to the liquid instead of his face. "Well, not be on it as much as be a background person because the lack of experience I have in the field. Paperwork and all the stuff special agents are too busy to bother with if it's not a round up."

"Oh?" He asks. Half in wonderment and half in something unidentifiable. He knows she's slowly revealing what she's learned. This is her game and he is merely a chess piece.

"I went to check in today and make sure my duty assignment was all up to date so I don't have any paperwork problems on Monday," she notes as she places her glass back down on the table and touches the base with her fingertips. "They've asked me to assess a high value target. A risk to the government, to the United States, apparently."

She looks back at him as he morphs his face into a surprised sort of confusion. She leaves him alone at the little table for four as she grabs her bag from the entry way. The folder is thick and weighted and she sighs at it before walking back into the room.

She holds it like a shield and he watches as she stares at him. Her eyes hold all the questions she can't bring herself to ask him.

"You," she says as she thrusts the folder at him.

He takes it but places it on the table beside him rather than looking through it. He focuses intently on her.

"You lied to me," she told him. "You said you were in hedge funds."

"No one actually knows what the hell anyone does in hedge funds," Red points out as his face morphs into a pinched sort of look as he subtly shakes his head. They both know that the hedge funds thing never really sits well with anyone. "You didn't really, truly believe it. I saw it in your eyes; the questions you had but were too afraid to ask. But I didn't lie to you, not about the important things. I just withheld something."

"Important things?" She half laughs and her mouth hangs open as she finds herself willing to direct some of her anger at him. Anger that's been festering just under the surface that she couldn't direct to Sam without feeling guilty about how it might make him and his healing process worse. But here was Raymond Reddington and he was sort of the cause of this, or at least he would accept partial blame and let her direct whatever she felt his way and take it. "Like you're number four on the FBI's most wanted? That's a hell of a big difference from hedge funds. This is my life. My career. How can I not tell them something."

She waits for his reply, but he is waiting for her to run her course.

"You know that if I ever transfer, they will troll my digital footprint," she continues. "They'll look at everything. Why... Why would you expose yourself to that. You put yourself in danger... me in danger. If they ever find out..."

She shakes her head. Its a stupid reason. He's called her once and sent a postcard. He doesn't have a phone or email but that doesn't make a difference right now.

"I kissed you," she whispers.

And she liked it, she remembers. She felt safe, comfortable, herself. She hates that she still feels this way around him. She's logically supposed to be scared of this man. He's the fourth most wanted criminal for some reason. He's armed and extremely dangerous according to the poster. But she's not. She doesn't know who he is or how he makes her feel vulnerable and strong at the same time. But apparently if anyone could do it, it would be Raymond Reddington: number four on the most wanted list of her new career.

"This isn't just a job... this is my career."

Her shoulders slump in defeat. She's done. She doesn't want to do this anymore... any of it. She wants to press restart and wonders what her life would be like if Raymond Reddington had never entered it. What would happen is Sam had never been diagnosed with cancer.

"And yet, you still haven't called 911 or your superiors," he notes.

She wishes he wasn't so damn self-assured and arrogant. She wishes she didn't have more questions then answers. She wishes a lot of things were different regarding them. She hates that he's never given her platitudes or belittled her feelings or opinions. Rather, like now, he's not lying to her. Or at least she doesn't think he is. She holds his eyes and can't find any markers of deception. Perhaps if he did these things, it would be easier to hate him. Before him, she was rather invisible. Simply existing. She has plans. They're not big and grandiose but they matter to her and she wants to be successful at one thing. And now she wonders if she's just ruined her plans by finding him interesting and having this need to know more about him despite knowing this could all end in disaster for both of them. It's not the best idea for either of them but here they are sitting next to each other at her dining table simply taking one another in.

She watches his cheek twitch and there's a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the topic of conversation.

"Profile me," he whispers.

She cants her head and shakes it ever so slightly.

"Why would I do that?" She whispers back.

"Are you not board certified in forensic psychology?" He wonders and his tone suggests a question and a statement at the same time. But they both know she almost is. And very good at it, too. It's why she's the one doing the internship in the FBI's New York City field office to finish off her certification.

"You don't need a degree to create a profile," she tells him. Because he certainly doesn't have one and yet he reads and knows her better than she knows herself. Sometimes, he's even anticipated her reaction before she has it. Plus, profiling isn't really a job in the FBI. Not at her level. She merely observes and assesses situations from afar and lets the field agents run around and catch the bad guys and take all the credit.

"I think you know me better than you think, Lizzie," he counters.

"I don't know anything about you," she counters back.

His lips pout and she wonders if he will tell her the truth of what really happened. He opens his mouth to speak, she doesn't know what but something draws his attention away from her. She frowns and tilts her head as a foreign sound greets her.

A yipping little noise comes from a corner of her apartment. She thinks it comes from the still mostly boxed up living room but she hadn't been in there since seeing the light on in the kitchen. She watches as he gets up from his seat and comes back a moment later with a fluff of fur in his hands. Her brow furrows as he deposits the fluff in her lap. She doesn't know what to do as he tilts his head and looms over her.

"It's a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon. Extremely loyal dogs. He needs a lot of walks but he can be a guard dog of sorts if properly trained. I found him wandering the streets in Vienna," he tells her as he watches her. She pets the little head and the thing almost falls off her lap in excitement. "He was a ratty little thing, all fur and bones and walked right up to me. Dembe and I have been nursing him back to health."

"If you say he reminds you of me, I will kill you," she points out as she looks up at him.

"Oh, no," he chuckles as he sits back in his chair. "You're nothing alike. Where you'd be able to survive on your own wits, the only thing you two have in common is that you aren't afraid of me."

There's a beat of silence and she bites her lip. Her mind works through all the various conclusions and can only really come up with one solid one.

"I can't take care of a dog and have a career," she tells him.

"Lizzie," he starts. "The things you are about to embark on, the "profiling," the interactions with some of the worst criminals… everyone has to have something to keep them grounded and in the real world. If not, you'll go insane and…"

He trails off and his hands make a little gesture that tells her what she needs to know.

"It's true the life of an agent isn't particularly designed for a family and a house and two point five kids with the picket fence and the dog in the yard," he tells her honestly. "But you can have a life if you choose to do so. Your work is far from the mundane nine to five office work but you can make it work with the right motivation. Everyone needs that something to come home to, who won't judge them for a days work where they understand that they can't talk about it and..."

She watches as he flatlines the conversation. She knows he had some sort of life before all of this...  _stuff_. She hasn't read his file but there's this sadness in his eyes that is buried until he looks at her like she's the only thing that matters in the world. And she shifts in her chair as she catches his eye and notices that look has returned.

She looks at the puppy in her lap. His fur kind of remind her of the hair of the man who deposited the little thing into her lap. There's a strawberry blond sort in the otherwise maple colored fur. She thinks in the early morning light it would shine and brighten. If she takes him, she will have someone to welcome her home every night. She wonders what he has. And she's suddenly not afraid to ask him.

"What about you?" She asks as she looks up at him again.

"I have you," he tells her after a quiet stare down as blue meets green.

Her hand falters as it moves to pet the puppy's head again and the little thing yips again. She covers the little body with her hand and he settles. She swallows heavily and her mouth drops open slightly.

"Why me?" she whispers.

He gets a tic in his cheek and his jaw twitches back and forth as he mulls over his reasons.

"I don't know," he shrugs.

She knows he's probably lying but can't confront him, afraid he'll run.

She feels the heat in her cheeks and can't look at him. His eyes are somehow darker and more open and she can't right now. So she looks down and clears her throat. She can feel the heat and intensity of his gaze as he watches her. He's refusing to look away for some reason and she wonders if he's trying to answer his own questions he no doubt has as to why she's so important.

* * *

She watches as he frowns the further into the file he goes. They sit at the table still. He's given her space and done the dishes and has packed everything into her fridge rather than the bag because the sorry state of her fridge. He set something for her on the counter and turned off all the lights when he had finished. He poured another glass of wine for the both of them to finish off the bottle and she's been idly sipping at it since his return. She sat at the table, staring at the puppy who has refused to move from her lap and thought about the man who roams her brownstone as if he belongs there before he finally sat down with the file she had pushed on him earlier.

"I don't know him," she tells him suddenly out of the blue.

His looks up from the file and head cants and she knows he's waiting for more information.

"Donald Ressler," she flits back through her memory of her run in with another agent today. "He didn't ask me. One of his many minions did or something. He thinks since he's been promoted from agent to case agent on you, that he has rank within the ranks. I heard he doesn't put much into forensic psychology but he hears that it's all the rage now so he was asking and said it'd be a boost to my career."

He chuckles and she doesn't know the reason behind her wanting and perhaps even a need to know why what she said elicited this response.

"Donald Ressler," he notes the reason for his laughter.

Her eyes narrow.

"Last year in Brussels, he tried to kill me."

Her mouth opened in surprise.

"I was gone before he got to the train station. I suspected one of my men to be the supplier of my whereabouts."

"Were you right?" She wondered.

"About?" He questions.

She tilts her chin down and simply stares and waits for the answer.

"Yes. It was one of my men." He confirmed after a beat. "He thought if I was taken out, everything would go to him."

He smiles that one smile that suggests there's more to it. She's only seen it once or twice but can now identify it. He stares at her and she wonders if her role in this is larger than just some sort of fixation. He seems to read her mind or something as he suddenly, but slowly, stands and reaches out a hand towards her. She gathers the puppy in one of her arms and places her hand in his and lets him take the lead.

She doesn't miss the quiet sigh or his shoulders loosening as the taught muscles relax ever so slightly at her acceptance of his lead.

"What's this?" She asks as he guides her to the living room and she notices all her boxes have been contained near the walls and there's four more boxes in the center, near the newly delivered couch that wasn't supposed to be here until tomorrow. He drops her hand and gestures to the few new additions. The puppy yips in her ear and she holds him out and sets him on the floor of her living room.

"My life," he tells her.

He circles around the boxes stacked two by two and can't help but watch as the nameless puppy follows him around and sits awkwardly on his rear legs as Red stops. He looks back up to Liz.

"The truth is in here, Lizzie," he tells her. "You'll just have to find it yourself."

"Sam told me something today," she notes.

He cants his head but says nothing.

"You have a story and to not close the book without buying the entire thing," she remembered. "He says that I only received the subtitle the day I was made an agent and the first few chapters when we first met."

"Sam was always one for bookish metaphors," Red tries.

She shakes her head.

"I'm drawn to you," she notes for the first time aloud. She knows him. Knows he's  _around_  by some sort of feeling or intuition. She doesn't know how or why but she knows he feels it, too. "Just as you are to me. You make me feel like somebody and that I am the most interesting person in the room despite me feeling otherwise. I don't know why you do it. Why me?"

"Some of the answers you seek are in these files," he tells her.

Her fists clench at her side and she watches his gaze flicker down to them. She's growing frustrated at the lack of answers he's giving her. It isn't enough but it's also something. It's more than she ever really expected after the revelation at her graduation.

"Is everything a game or a puzzle to you?" She wonders.

"Not everything," he replies quickly. He tampers down on his own frustration. It won't do either of them any good.

He steps close, moving around the boxes and into her personal space. The puppy follows and sits between their feet. Or, rather, on their feet since they stand so close.

"Know this, Lizzie," he whispers and she can feel the warmth seeping from him. He lifts her chin with a finger and she swallows harder than she thought she would. His touch affects her. Even the simplest touches, apparently. When he drops his finger and his hand ghosts across her form, she closes her eyes for a brief moment to tap down on her emotions. "You can trust me. I have no reason to lie to you."

She unconsciously licks her lip and bites the inside of her cheek. Her fingers reach out to touch him but at the last minute, they pull away.

"I won't be your informant," she told him.

"I am perfectly content with my own information. I certainly don't need yours," he smirks and she thinks maybe he silently chuckles.

He pauses.

She waits.

Neither seem to move until he nods once.

"I should go," he notes.

She still has too many questions for him but knows he's giving her space and time and whatever else he believes is good for creating a profile. He knows as soon as he leaves, she'll being searching through the documents. She's too curious not to start the minute he leaves. She walks him to the door and still says nothing. It's only when she's at her window and sees the Mercedes pull up as he walks down the few steps does she realize she has no way of contacting him. She laughs at herself because if she doesn't laugh, she'll cry or get angry and she needs to focus because she has boxes of files to read through. She needs to know about Raymond Reddington. She needs her answers.

After locking up for the night, she steps into the kitchen intent on getting a glass of water to drink as she reads through the files. She stops and looks at the counter as the light turns on again and the room is bathed in muted yellow, and in the middle sits a single piece of cake on a little plate with a red candle sticking out from it. She swallows hard and makes her way to the single piece. She moves the plate because she sees something and bites her lip as she finds he left a napkin with the words  _happy birthday, lizzie_  written in the now familiar red ink sitting under the plate. She's not surprised he knew what today was. She's also not surprised he knows carrot cake minus the raisins is her favorite. He had cooked her the meal she always loved as a child and her favorite cake for her birthday. And all she did was take some of her frustration out on him. He might deserve it. He does deserve it. But for now, she has his cake and his files and all the time in the world to get to know the man who knows her better than she knows herself yet is constantly surprised by her. He knows her but she can still surprise him.

She wonders if he'll come back around when she finds some of the answers to some of the questions she has.

Deep down, she knows he'll be back. And he'll be back sooner rather than later. She wonders if their chance meeting was designed. Or was this a random moment that connected them. And she wonders, will her life change directions in a violent whirlwind or if it will be slight and steady. She can feels the change. Or perhaps its the puppy's quiet and gentle staring that she feels. But this feels like the beginning rather than the end of them.


End file.
